It's been an honor, Captain
by annoying-antisocial
Summary: What if that day the man standing on the edge of Bart's roof was John? What if Moriarty twisted the game? What if the roles were reversed in the Reichenbach fall? (First try and a Sherlock thing, and it may have been done already. Also yes, John/Sherlock will be showing it's face here.)
1. Chapter 1

**Quick note: **_I know my usual ammo is Bones stuff but not this round. All credit to owners of Sherlock, so not mine! WARNING: Suicide (fake as you know if you are a Sherlock fan) but it may be triggering, be careful. _

John stood in the morgue, his eyes on the floor and his thoughts spinning a web so tight he thought he might choke. 'The game is changing-J.M' The note was written in blood red marker over the scrawl of notes in Sherlock's dramatic print. It was sitting on his bed that morning, and he'd stuffed it in his pocket the second he picked it up. Sherlock wouldn't know, he couldn't and that's why he was standing here, waiting for Mycroft's call. "You're anxious. Why?" Sherlock's deep voice was twinged with a well hidden concern, and John jumped at the break in silence.  
"I'm not. Don't worry."  
"I'm not worried, I'm curious." Now he was leaning forward, sharp eyes jumping over John's body. The lump of his fist in his jeans, the jacket that hung haphazardly on his shoulders, and the way his hair stuck up like spikes from the many times he'd dragged his hands through it all caught Sherlock's attention. "You are anxious, it's obvious."  
"It is not-I mean, I'm fine. Just go back to doing you're...science." John waved his hand at the taller man, and then his phone vibrated in his pocket. "John Watson." He answered.  
"John, there is a car waiting outside. Tell my brother you are going to check on . See you soon." Mycroft's oily voice curled through the receiver, John nodded and made a sound of agreement.  
"Who was that?" Sherlock inquired, his concentration back on the microscope.  
" 's hip is sore, she wants me to go look at it. I'll be back in a bit." John replied, dropping his phone into his pocket and watching. He watched Sherlock's curls spring a bit as he nodded, and how his shirt buttons pulled taut every time he breathed. He knew what Mycroft was planning, though the British government hadn't given him much in information about his intentions, he knew he'd be leaving. For how long? That's the part John didn't know. So he watched his best friend do what he did best, he watched his eyes as he looked over the room, and he could practically feel the wheels turning in his head. Sherlock gave him a fake smile, but his steel eyes held doubt, and faint concern. John turned away, unable to watch as Sherlock fought to hide his emotions. He knew Sherlock could see he was lying, but he was choosing to ignore it. He was putting his faith in John, he really shouldn't. As he pulled the door open, John turned his gaze back to the other man for a moment. "Goodbye, Sherlock."  
"Goodbye, John."

* * *

John watched London fly by, the entire world dimed by the blueish-black of the tinted windows. He didn't even take a moment to stare at Mycroft's beautiful assistant, like he usually did. He just watched, catching glimpses of alley's and buildings that sent a shiver through his body. Memories flooded his mind, images of he and Sherlock running along the streets. 'God, this hurts.' John mused, closing his eyes to bite back tears. Every fiber of his body shouted to jump out of this car, to run back to Sherlock, and shoot Moriarty between the eyes. His soldiers instincts told him he was running, that he should stay and fight like a man, not a damn coward. He wanted to, he wanted to so badly it physically hurt, but he couldn't. This wasn't a war, this wasn't rational, and it certainly wasn't practical. This was a demented board game; the board was London, the one controlling it all was Moriarty, and the player was Sherlock. John was just a card being pulled, a quick trick to throw off the player. Not even a trump card, either, more like a 'go back to start' slip that made everyone unhappy. The car had stopped, he hadn't noticed, but now his door was open and an impatient nameless woman was glaring down at him. "What is it today?"  
"Aimee, it means beloved friend." The woman's voice was soft, apologetic.  
"Oh that's brilliant." John scoffed, and he looked at the floor. He wasn't angry with Anthea, or Aimee, or whatever, he was angry with Moriarty. He was angry with Mycroft, and Sherlock and this idiotic game. He was so angry he wanted to shoot someone, and break down in tears. His throat clenched, and his eyes hut of their own accord, and he stood on shaky legs. "Let's go." He bit out, but his voice still cracked. Whatever Mycroft had planned wasn't going to be good.

* * *

"What? No! We can't...I don't even understand how you could think of that!" John shouted, his hand's shook violently with blind rage. He stared up at Mycroft, shaking his head and pushing back the tears he felt.  
"It's necessary to keep Sherlock safe." Mycroft kept his voice commanding and quiet, his eyes level with John's. "It's all planned out, simple enough."  
"Simple? Simple?! Ha!" John stepped forward, and Mycroft jumped back on reflex. "What about Harry? Or ! Can you even imagine how they'll react and Sherlock-Oh,God Sherlock!"  
"Yes, I know. It won't be easy, but it's how this has to happen."  
"I-I can't...what would even be my reason?" John breathed, his stormy eyes fallen to the carpet under his feet.  
"Reason?" Mycroft actually sounded confused, like he'd never thought someone need a reason to commit suicide.  
"Yes, Mycroft, reason!" John's voice rose again, but he was tired. He was tired of this game, of all the tricks, and tired of this conversation. "I can't jump off a building for no reason!"  
"Before you met my brother you were planning to shoot yourself." It wasn't a question. "Use those reason's, just change them up a bit. Make them more...up to date."  
"I...Sherlock will never believe it." John countered, licking his lips.  
"Yes, he will. He will see you fall, he won't have a choice." Mycroft sounded smug, the smirk evident in his tone.  
"What do you mean, 'see me'?!" John searched Mycroft's face for the hint of a lie, for something that said he wasn't really going to do that. "You're going to force your little brother to watch his best friend jump off a building!"  
"It's the only way." Mycroft's voice went soft again, and he laid a hand on John's shoulder.  
"This can't be happening." John cried, his voice echoing through the empty office building they stood in. His heart felt like a snake had slithered into his body and was wrapping it's body around it until every beat caused an orchestra of pain to boom through his nerves. His mind danced and raced with thoughts: How would it feel to jump? Was it enough to fool Moriarty, or Sherlock? Would Sherlock even react? John knew he cared, but he was a 'high-functioning sociopath' so would he let on that he cared? That thought made his breath catch. What if Sherlock locked away what he felt, and it slowly destroyed him. He couldn't do this, it couldn't happen, he couldn't hurt Sherlock like that.  
"He will be fine, I'll watch him." Mycroft replied to John's silent inner torment, and again John played with the thought the two brother had some strange ability to read minds. "No, I can't read minds. It was on your face-We don't have time for this, there is very much to do!" Together he and Mycroft left the building, and their plan set into motion. John couldn't stop it now.

* * *

Sherlock paced the morgue, thinking over what John was saying. The blond had been strange all day, mumbling and glancing around, and always with his hand in his pocket! Now he'd rushed off, obviously lying, and Sherlock still didn't know what was going on! John had always surprised him, and confused him a little, but he hadn't done something so odd and unpredictable since shooting that cabby! Sherlock had to admit that John surprised him at least once a day, and he was very interesting to interact with sometimes, but this was just strange. Finally, the detective snatched his coat up and rushed off to 221B, time to put together this puzzle. Moriarty could wait.  
" !" He belowed as soon as he swung the door open. The woman stumbled out of her apartment, looking more then a little perplexed.  
"Yes, dear, what is it?" She smiled, but he could see the fond annoyance in her eyes.  
"Where is John?"  
"Didn't he go off with you? Did you boys have a fight?"  
"No, no we didn't. I...have to go." Sherlock spun around, his great coat trailing behind him like a cape. Holding up a hand he caught the attention of a cabby in a second, and got in. " ." He ordered, and the cabby rushed off with the slam of a gas peddle.

* * *

John opened to door that lead to the roof, and took a slow step onto the gravel. The smell of the city hit him like a slap, gas and smoke and rain, along with that smell that was just human. "Johnny!" A happy voice echoed over the noise of the fans. "So good to see you."  
"Moriarty." John bit out, stepping fully out of the door and scanning the area.  
"Jim, please. I suppose we can ignore the small talk and all that." Jim Moriarty stepped out into John's eye line, and grinned like a lizard. He was dressed in a perfect suit, his hair gelled to look messy. "Get straight to the point, you'd like that wouldn't you?"  
"Yes, Jim, I'd just love it." John returned the smile with his own, and squared his shoulders.  
"Okay, wonderful!" Jim smiled, clapping his hands together.  
"Why am I here?"  
"I told you, I'm changing the game."  
"Yes, I know but why the roof? Why ?"  
"This is where you met Sherlock Holmes, correct?" Jim smiled at the small, astonished nod John gave. "The roof, well that's simple. Even someone has average as you could have guessed what I've got in mind. No? Oh, what a shame."  
"Get to the point Jim." John ordered, his voice holding a barely restrained growl.  
"You're in my way, John. You are keeping him good, and it's boring!" Jim whined, he actually whined, and his shoulders slumped as his lip poked out in a pout. "I can't kill you, or at least he can't know I killed you cause then he'd just be out for revenge. The point, Johnny boy, is my game can't continue with you alive."  
"So you brought me up here so I'd-Oh God!" John looked over the edge of the roof and went pale, faking the paralyzing fear like Mycroft told him to.  
"Yes, Johnny, like I said I'm going to burn the heart of Sherlock Holmes." Jim smiled again, and wrapped an arm around John's shoulders as they looked over the edge.  
"What makes you think I will?" John asked, trying to pull away.  
"Oh simple, really. If you don't I'll kill you're sister and her little girlfriend." Jim's mouth curled with a satisfied grin when he looked down at John.  
"No! Harry...and Clara...no. You can't, they aren't part of this!"  
"Everyone's part of THIS!" Jim shouted, pushing John away and he lowered his voice to a disgusting whisper. "Make the choice, your life or theirs."  
"No...I..I can't!" John stammered, holding his hands up and shaking his head.  
"Tick-tock." Jim smiled, tapping his watch. "My snipers are ready, the only thing that'll stop them now is seeing your cute little head hit that pavement."  
"You could stop them."  
"No...I couldn't." Jim grinned, swinging his arm around from his back and smacking the metal of a gun on his teeth. He gave a cold look to John and before the solider could react the bullet broke through Jim's head, blood blowing back out of his head. Ruby pooled around him, and his body was slumped on the ground, the gun still between his lips. John could smell the burning flesh of Moriarty's mouth, and the choking scent of blood. He was frozen, staring at the man's leg give one last twitch and turned his eyes to the edge. The taxi was pulling up now, and he saw the dark,curly head pop out. Sherlock rushed to the pavement, eyes scanning the crowd and area, looking desperately for John. John took a heavy step onto the edge, and his entire body shook. He watched Sherlock another second before pulling out his phone and pushing '1' on his speed dial.

* * *

"John, where are you?" Sherlock answered, his eyes darting over the area. Nothing! John was no where, but he could hear wind on the phone, and he closed his eyes for a second.  
"Look up, Sherlock." John's calm, steady voice replied after a second and Sherlock's gaze trailed over the buildings until he saw a compact figure on top of 's.  
"What are you doing?" Sherlock whispered into the phone, and he saw the figure give a small wave.  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John began, taking a deep breath. Sherlock could hear his voice quiver with tears. "I don't want to hurt you...Tell Harry I love her, Tell her I'm so-"  
"No! No, shut up John. You're being an idiot again." Sherlock broke in, stepping closer to the hospital. He heard his own voice crack, and he felt the tears on his cheeks already, he knew what was happening. It hurt, it hurt so damn badly he clenched his fists as he stared up into the light, at John. "Get down, please, just...get down."  
"Sherlock, you were amazing. You made my life matter again, before I met you I was planning and putting a bullet in my brain." John continued, ignoring the pleas. "It was perfect, and I want to thank you for that. This isn't your fault. What I'm about to do...it's not because of you. I just can't...do this. I can't keep waking up at night, shaking and sweating with memories. I can't live with a limp that shows up when I'm stressed. I can't continue living...with the guilt. It hurts to much, knowing I couldn't save the men around me because I was shot. If I had been stronger wife wouldn't be a widow right now, and children would still have a father."  
"Oh God, John...Don't." Sherlock was crying now, he hadn't actually cried in years and it made his face itch.  
"Sherlock, I'm sorry." Then the line went dead, and he saw the figure fling the phone away from him. Sherlock's own mobile fell to the ground in a clatter and he pushed his hand into the air, willing it to hold John where he was. John reached his arm out also, and Sherlock swore he could feel his finger's brushing against his palm. He pushed his mind toward John, he pleaded for him to stay put, his body shook with the effort. He saw John take the first step, one foot dangling there, and then he kicked off with his other foot and he was heading face first for concrete.  
"JOHN!" Sherlock bellowed, breaking into a run, and bouncing of a clumsy bicyclist. "Dammit!" Sherlock hissed, pushing to his feet. When he finally made it to the pavement in front of Barts, everyone was surrounding a body. It was crumpled, slightly broken, and his head was lying to the side from being rolled over. Brilliant red leaked into the pavement, reflecting the sunlight and Sherlock pushed people down and fell to his knees, his pants soaking in blood. "God, John...no." He coughed out, leaning over and pushing his fingers against John's wrist. Nothing. His piercing eyes scanned John, he looked for any sign of life. Nothing. The blood was staining John's light hair, and his ocean blue eyes stared at the lamp post just behind Sherlock. His eyes were empty, they didn't hold the light Sherlock loved so desperately, or the laughter tainted by pain, not even the wise anger he always had. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing! Sherlock wasn't breathing, he wasn't moving, and if he had any control over it, his heart wouldn't be beating. Pain raced in his blood, and shock kept him from running. That's all he wanted to do as the people collected John and wheeled him inside, he wanted to run. He wanted to tear away the memories, the happy days, the joy's of running around. He wanted to melt away all the compliments John gave him, he wanted to forget the sound of John's voice, the feeling of his skin, the noise of him walking around the flat in the morning. It hurt so badly, and not any pain medicine in the world could fix this numbing. John was gone, his John was gone. He left him empty and burning on his knees, in his best friend's blood. John took his happiness, his feelings, his laughter and everything with him. Sherlock never wanted to breath again, he pushed away from all the concerned people that tried to hold him. He stumbled away from everyone, and rode in a police car-which vexed him terribly- back to his flat. He stood on the stairs, he heard 's weeping in her apartment. He couldn't walk up those stairs, he couldn't go in there and see that chair. He couldn't sit in that flat that smelled like John, seeing all the places John walked, remembering hurt to much. Sherlock fell onto the stairs and felt his sleeve grow heavy with tears. His body shook, and his pants clung to him, soaked in blood. In fell asleep there, weeping, covered in blood, on the stairs. The next day he didn't move when Lestrade showed up to get his statement. He was told they found blood on the roof, and the marks of a body being dragged. He didn't care. John was gone, and no puzzle would bring him back.

* * *

**I also have this posted on archive of our own (my name is annoying_antisocial there also) so yeah...thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Quick note: **_Okay, thanks for reading this far! I'm sorry about your feelings, I really am. Reviews are always welcome, and constructive criticism is requested! Let's get on with it. ALSO: You should so listen to Bach's Chaconne while reading this, it adds a little something my words couldn't convey._

* * *

made her way up the stairs, a cup of tea in one hand and an invitation in the other. It was pointless to give it to Sherlock, he knew what day it was. She'd heard the long, heartbreaking notes of Bach's Chaconne echoing through the soundless flat. Sherlock hasn't spoken a word since Lestrade had taken his statement. Silent as a dead man in the cold flat, he refused to turn on the heat, he refused to eat, he refused to sleep. All he did was play violin and solve cold case after cold case. 's eyes caught on the scuff marks at the top of the stairs, and her throat tightened. They were from John's boots, when he was running up the stairs one night after Sherlock. She'd yelled about them, halfheartedly and with love like always, but yet she'd yelled. Now she dropped to her knees, setting the tea and invitation to the side and ran her fingers over the dark lines. Dropping her head down, she cursed herself for getting angry at him then. Now this was one of the few physical proof's that the doctor had even resided here. She knew his room was untouched, it was a silent agreement that no one dare go inside. She heard the song, she had it memorized now. Sherlock played it until he dropped from exhaustion, and he didn't let her feed him until the pain from starving himself was unbearable. He'd already lost 3 stones, and with the way he was going it would be 5 before the weeks end. It was Wednesday, and it was the day of John's funeral. Sherlock was going to go if Marie Hudson had to call all of Scotland Yard down and drag him there. John would've wanted him there, she knows it. It was going to be small, just a few people that John really cared for. Lestrade, Molly, Harry, and Clara of course, and even Anderson and Sally were coming. Mike Stamford, Bill Murray and a few army friends were making an appearance, along with Sarah from the hospital. It was simple, Mycroft had planned it all out. had found that odd, but Harry was a wreck and Sherlock was-she didn't have a word for it, really-broken. Mycroft had arranged everything with Marie, and it sounded like a beautiful affair. Powder blue forget-me-not's and soft pink roses, representing friendship and the promise to never forget the honorable soul that was John Watson. Everyone was to wear dark colors, has traditional to a funeral, and his headstone was a simple black marble with Golden letters. The funny part was, it wasn't really a headstone, but a bench. Marie felt a sad smile spread on her face, John would have loved it. Being able to help people, even after death. Giving the lonely mourner a place to sit, an old widow a bench to cry on, he would have smiled. felt her heart breaking all over again, thinking of him made her breathing hurt. She loved both her boys so desperately, and even though only John was really gone everyone knew Sherlock wasn't really here either. The moment John stepped off that roof, stepped away from all these people who loved him, Sherlock had run away and hidden himself. Marie feared he'd never come back. She couldn't handle loosing them both, she'd probably have a stroke without them. Slowly, she stood and gathered the things at her side, with one last longing glance at the scuff marks, she opened that flat door. "Come on darling, you must look nice. Imagine what John would think if you went to his funeral in your jimjams." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Her smiles never did anymore. Without the steady, funny, doctor to keep everyone around her in line, the world felt a little empty. There were no yelling fits about experiments, or doors slamming over nothing. The smell of home cooking never filled the air, and the tea kettle hasn't been touched. Everything that was John was left the way he'd left it that morning, no one dared change it. Sherlock grunted in response, dropping the violin into his chair. walked towards him, setting the tea down on the table, careful to avoid John's chair. No one touched it, not even Mycroft when he came to visit a few days after the 'incident'. "Alrighty, all just go get your clothes all ready dear." She smiled and walked into his room, gathering together his best suit. She was picking up socks when something caught her eye, she knew Sherlock hadn't slept in here since that day. He probably didn't even go in the room except to grab clothes, and he'd be able to overlook it easily. She picked up the envelope peeking out from under Sherlock's blankets gently, and her heart stopped. Across the envelope was John's swift, but hard to read doctor's hasty cursive. _'Sherlock Holmes'_ is what it spelled, and it was heavy with a letter and another item. pushed away her tears and walked back to Sherlock, dropping the note on his chest as he lay on the couch. Sherlock picked it up gently, eyes skimming the writing, and his blue-grey eyes shown with tears. He pulled it open, his lips quirking at the memory of John's voice filled his head. 'I hate licking envelops to close them, it tastes horrible. They 'ought to make it strawberry flavored if they want us to lick it!; He'd complained one day after Sherlock asked why he was tapping an envelope shut. He hadn't licked this one shut either, he'd left it open. Sherlock's smile fell and he felt the rope around his heart tighten. He pulled out the letter, it was the hard-to-read writing he knew by heart.  
_'You meant the world to me. I say meant because by now I'm dead, which is strange to say-uh write, oh I don't know! Listen- I mean read, oh bloody hell.-Don't go to long locked up in your own head, Sherlock, I don't want you to hurt. Go on with your life, solve crimes and save the world, be a hero. I know you say hero's don't exist, but I know they do. I've known they were real since I met you. No matter what you say, you'll always be a hero to me. Promise me you won't take up drugs again, and you'll eat and sleep. You have to, Sherlock, you have to keep living for the both of us. If it really hurts to much, then I understand, and you can delete me. I don't want you to delete me,understand that, but if you have to then do it. Please, just take care of yourself. _  
_Yours,_  
_John H. Watson.' _  
Sherlock's eyes burnt so violently he scrubbed at them and clutched the note between his fingers, reading it over and over. If he didn't want to hurt me, if he cared so much why'd he jump? Was the only question in his head, the only thought really. was back getting his stuff together, and he was lying on the couch, with a burning throat to avoid crying again. He was a high-functioning sociopath, dammit! He shouldn't be hurting so much. No, this wasn't hurting, this was burning, this was the purest pain he'd ever felt and it hurt like hell. He reached down for the envelope when he felt something else, something cold and metal in it. Bringing it towards himself, he shook out the contents and felt the cool metal in his hands. It was light, and small, it took him a moment to realize what it was and when he did his jaw dropped. John's dog tags. He stared at them, he followed the beaded medal the hung from out of his palm, and saw it curl against his chest. His breathing grew faster, then stopped and his eyes glazed over with tears yet again. He was holding something of John's, part of his identity, in his palm. It hurt so much he wanted to throw it, he wanted to hate John, he wanted to delete him. He couldn't, he never would. John was his world, alive or dead, and he would stay that way. Sherlock's hands closed over the metal, feeling it imprint in his skin. It stung some, but compared to the thrumming ache in his body, it really didn't make a difference. He went into his room, gave him her fake smile and he started to get ready. She went down stairs to prepare herself, and the day pushed on, breaking both their hearts as the time approached.  
After he was showered, dressed, and shaven Sherlock stood in front of the mirror, trying to deal with his mess of hair. The dog tags sat on the bathroom counter, and his eyes fell on them, and his heart beat quickened at the sight. Without thinking, he picked them up and dropped them over his head. Their weight against his chest calmed him in a way only John could, and he sucked in a deep breath. It shook with his tears, and he braced himself against the sink and dropped his head. John, John, John. That's all that he could think of, John and this ridiculous pain he'd caused. The tags hung outside his shirt, and he wore them with pride and pain as he walked outside with .

* * *

The ceremony was quick, and vaguely religious. Sherlock had expected that, he always thought John's family to be the religious type, but not John. John had lost his faith in that war, he left it on the desert and traded it for pain and nightmares. He gave up his belief and gained the thing that caused him to jump off that building. For the umpteenth time that day, Sherlock held back his tears and stared at the preacher, deducing his entire life. He was a good man, worked at a soup kitchen (a stain of chicken broth on his shirt sleeve, could be from dinner but his shoes had dirt and dust that resembled that of a homeless shelter.) Married for 14+ years, happily even. (Ring regularly cleaned, but dinged slightly from age.) He had a stutter as a child, but took speech therapy later in life. (Slight quavers on the letter t,r, and s when he spoke.) Boring, all of it. The entire world was more boring then it had ever been, everything was grey without John. A woman sang a song about celebrating a life, and Sherlock didn't even bother to deduce her. They moved to the cemetery and Sherlock sat under the temporary roof they put over John's grave. He was with Harry and Clara, and they all watched as the coffin slowly fell into it's place. Harry shook with tears, loudly walling and Clara was quiet. Her tears fell silently, and her head hung as the preacher gave a final sermon. Sherlock was silent, like he'd been for the past two weeks, and he stared into the light of the taunting sunshine, hoping it would blind him to this. This final testament, John was gone. Forever. "Does anyone have anything they'd like to say?" The preacher finally asked, and everyone looked around to see if anyone dared speak. Harry said a few words, she went on about how amazing John was, how he'd helped her when she was horrible to him. Then she broke down in tears of guilt and grief and Clara led her away. Lestrade said a few things about how great a mate John was, and how he still can't imagine not meeting him at the pub after a case. His eyes went watery and he excused himself. A few army buddies talked of how John was a true hero, and Sherlock agreed with them. Then everyone's eyes turned to Sherlock, expectant.  
"Do you have anything to say, Sherlock, dear?" smiled weakly, and he gave a short nod. Sherlock got to his feet, took a glance at the bench-headstone, took the dog tags in his fist and cleared his throat.  
"Life without John Watson isn't worthy of being called life." His voice gravely from tears pushed back, and it's lack of use in the past two weeks. Everyone stared at him, some in worry, some in awe, and all in sadness. Sadness for John, pity for him, it was all ridiculous. He was a sociopath for God's sake, he wasn't even sure why he'd said that! As he stomped away and hailed a cab from the edge of the graveyard, he felt a cold wind push against his back and took in a sharp breath. He knew why he said it, he'd said it because it was true.

* * *

John stood by a clump of headstones, watching his own funeral. 'Now that's not something you get to do everyday.' He thought silently, glaring at the entire thing. He hadn't spoken in days, and Amiee, she'd kept the name, had informed Mycroft she was worried. He was also, ever since John's fake suicide he hadn't even opened his mouth. Neither had Sherlock, Mycroft noted, and he was worrying for both of them. John was supposed to leave the country tonight, he was to command a large group of individuals who were working to tear down Moriarty's web. Sherlock was also working on it, between cold cases, but he didn't really care now. The trio watched as they lowered the casket, and everyone cried. John's shoulders were stiff, and his posture was hard and soldier like. Harry said a few words, and then ran away crying with Clara, Lestrade's little speech nearly brought John to tears, and his army buddies called him a hero. He wasn't. He caused all this pain, and it was all so stupid! Stupid Moriarty, stupid suicide, stupid everything! He wanted his life back, he wanted Sherlock back. Suddenly they all went silent as Sherlock stood to say something, and John strained to hear. "Life without John Watson isn't worthy of being called life." Is what Sherlock said before storming off, leaving John stung and numb. He saw his dog tags hanging from Sherlock's neck, and he felt his tears well up again.  
"I wish I'd really died." John turned, kicking his foot out and connecting a painful blow to a tree. He couldn't watch this, he couldn't know how much they hurt now. He'd hurt these people! If anyone was a sociopath, it was him. Causing all this, leaving them in this pain! He knew what it was like to loose someone close to you, his mother had killed herself. He knew what it felt like to be left behind, wondering what you could've done, why you didn't see. It all hurt so much, it was all so stupid! He'd broken Sherlock, he'd hurt , and his sister. It was to much, he stormed off, toward the well hidden car on the other end of the cemetery. Mycroft told him it wasn't just Harry and Clara, they'd caught gunmen on ,Lestrade, and Molly also. He'd saved everyone,Mycroft kept saying that but he remembered all their faces as his coffin fell into place. It contained the corpse of James Moriarty, but they didn't know that. They all had broken, unguarded, pained expression painted on. Everyone except Sherlock, who looked sickly and when the coffin was put down, he broke. It was hard to notice, but John saw his lip quiver, he saw how he glared at the sky like it had caused all this. He saw how he slumped forward slightly, and it broke John's heart to see that. His strong, willful, unbreakable best friend, collapsing inside, torturing himself. It all hurt so much, and now he was leaving the country to lead a team of strange government agents for an undisclosed amount of time. By the time he got back, Sherlock may just be to broken. As he reached the car he let the thought he'd been ignoring for weeks slam against his brain: When I get back, they'll all hate me.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the center of the flat, he'd thrown his shirt off and put his pajama bottoms on as soon as he entered. Now he stood there, staring at the chair before him, and at the damn pillow, taking slow breaths. He was on the verge of a panic attack, and his heart hurt with the pace it was beating. The cool medal against his chest grounded him, and now he was staring at the chair, willing it to calm him the way John always did. He'd gotten out of the cab when he was only half way home, and had run the entire rest of the trip. He didn't know why he was so distraught, but he had suspicions it was because of how desperately he longed for John. What was this emotion, and why was he feeling it? John would know, John always knew. He'd always explain things, he'd always listen, he'd always forgive Sherlock. He was one of a kind, and he was gone. Extinct, as it was, and Sherlock would never find someone like him again. He never wanted to leave this flat, but he never wanted to see it again. It reeked of memories, of nights together watching telly, and laughter and acceptance. The smells of take out hung from the walls, and forgotten experiments sat on the counter. Looking around Sherlock could practically hear John complaining about the fact someone shouldn't leave dead bugs on the kitchen counter. The exasperated sigh, and the kettle beginning to brew as he made his 'cool down cup of tea'. He saw the scene playing out like he'd expected that afternoon, the day John had jumped. The strange domestic catch in the thought made Sherlock glare, but he wanted it. Oh God he wanted it. He wanted back those lazy days, those days when he was bored and John stayed, he'd give anything to bring them back. His breath was quick again, and his throat constricted and he finally let the tears come. The swelled in his eyes, then leaked down the side of his face. They itched and smelled of salt, and he hated it. He stared at the skull, and growled at it for not being John. He cried, standing there, half naked and brokenhearted. His entire world was torn to shreds, but he'd continue for John. He'd go to crime scenes, he'd solve cases, he'd annoy Anderson, and he'd feel nothing. Nothing was better then this pain, this blackness and horror that controlled his every waking moment. Sherlock's knees gave out then, and he crumpled to the floor, clutching the tags in his hands and crying. He felt like a child, but no one could see him now (except Mycroft, and he could just piss off.) and he let himself feel. He let his gates open, and he let the grief taint every inch of his mind palace. every room, idea, and basic action became weighted with pain. He accepted it, and it became part of him. A constant pain of loss, every breath he took would reek of it, every step would ooze this pain and it would be his life. That was what his life was now, pain, loss, and want. Today was John's funeral, and today was the day Sherlock gave up.


	3. Chapter 3

John was sitting on a plane, cursing Mycroft in every way he could think. Japan! He was being sent to Japan, and he didn't know a single word of Japanese! This was more ridiculous then all of those nights he ran across London with Sherlock. He was supposed to meet his team, a very much English speaking team Mycroft had assured. Now he was alone with his thoughts, and he really hated it. All he saw was Sherlock, running away from the funeral, _his_ funeral. Sherlock had ruffled his hair violently, and stormed off, glaring at the world, hating it. John's dog tags were clutched in his fist, and his jacket was hung in his arm, the corner dragging over the soil. His eyes were red rimmed, and his lip quivered. He was practically running to that cab, ripping of his tie and suit jacket on the way. He looked so disheveled, so hurt, so _broken._ That was the word Mycroft had whispered to Aimee, the word that hung in the air and the word that Mrs. Hudson had muttered to Lestrade during the service. John had broken Sherlock Holmes, and now a deep fear crawled up his spine. It ran its dark claws into his blood, soaking into his thoughts and tearing apart his soul: He couldn't fix it this time. He straightened his posture as the seat belts sign flashed, snapping the safety belt into place he made a decision. This team had no business in his emotions, so they simply wouldn't know. He plastered on his war face and was tight lipped as the hard resolve the army taught him was spread over his features. There it would stay.

* * *

Sherlock paced the length of the flat, careful to avoid the chair. He was nervous, which was infuriating, but it was the emotion stuck in his gut. Lestrade would be here in minutes, ready to take him to a case. He'd told the DI that he could take a cab, but Lestrade insisted he take him. Going on about this being his first case in a while, and wanting to keep an eye on him. He didn't need that! He was tired of being treated like glass, like any move could break him-even if it was slightly true. Yes, he did shake a little every time he smelled making herself a cup of tea. Perhaps he forced himself to watch horrible telly and re-runs of just to feel close to John again. Maybe, whenever he walked out of his room he still felt his throat grow dry, and the heavy lump form when John wasn't padding around the flat. All of those things might-probably-maybe-kind of-definitely be true, but that doesn't mean he'd break down at a crime scene. He was a professional for crying out loud! He could ignore the emotions, fake like they weren't there. He'd accepted the deep longing and whole-hearted pain that filled his every day, and he knew how to function with it now. He ate only when he absolutely had to, and slept when he fell. It wasn't much unlike his life before John, and with him, but this was different. It had a heavy sense of grief in it. He wasn't doing this because he didn't care, he was doing it because he did, and it hurt. Mycroft said he was slowly killing himself, he said maybe that was his goal. Mycroft had left. Sherlock stopped moving, looking down at his watch. 2 minutes, and Lestrade should be here if traffic was being predictable-and it always was- so Sherlock began gathering his coat and scarf. He put his things on and turned to John's laptop, he needed to Google the victim. They had a name when they contacted Sherlock, apparently she was some famous singer, 'Annie Westbound'. He walked to the device and froze, his hands floating over it. He couldn't do this, he'd barely disturbed anything of John's since the 'incident'. He had to, his phone was to slow right now, updating or something boring. Taking a long deep breath, he finally pulled it open to find an envelope inside. Another one, just like the one from his room, but instead of his name it read 'Final Testament (My will is already on file with the Hospital)' Sherlock felt himself smile involuntarily, everything about John made him smile, even after death the man brought a grin to his face. It wasn't licked shut, just like the other, and Sherlock decided to open it.

_'I really hope you found this Sherlock, because I want you to read it first. It's unlikely tried to use the laptop, she says it scares her, so it's probably you. I'm going to go on like this is Sherlock, so if you aren't kindly piss off and give this to him.- Listen, or read or whatever, I need you to make sure everyone isn't too upset. I don't want to screw everyone's life up with what I'm going to do. I love you all(uh, loved?) and you all need to know that. Sherlock, you really need to remember that. Don't go off and do something dumb to prove your clever without Greg(Lestrade.) I'm not going to be there to help you, and you have to remember that. You really have to. Tell Harry this isn't her fault, and I love her(again,loved?) so much. Also tell her to stop the damn drinking. Clara will take care of her, but please make sure she doesn't run herself ragged trying. Clara would do that, turn away from what she needs to protect Harry. Love's funny, isn't Sherlock? Keep working, and make sure Greg remembers to sleep, and you damn well better be driving Anderson crazy. Call Sally out on something for me, would you? I always hated when she called you 'freak'. I did this not because I wanted to hurt you all, God no. I did it because I couldn't stand myself anymore. The nightmares, the guilt, the uselessness that I am (was?). I wasn't much help to anyone after the war, hardly before it either. I might have helped you somewhat Sherlock, but let's face it: I needed you more then you needed me. I love (Loved? You know what, fuck it.) you all. It hurts me just to think about how this might hurt you all. Be good, be careful, and don't forget each other. That happens when people die, everyone drifts slowly apart with their grief. Don't do that. _

_Yours,_

_John H. Watson_

Sherlock read it over, and over, and over, 10 times. He didn't hear Lestrade walk in, or close the door. He barely noticed when the DI cleared his throat, and then the world came back like a punch in the gut. his hands were shaking, and his eyes were glazed by tears again. Dammit, he was letting the pain win! "What's that, then?" Lestrade asked, stepping towards Sherlock.

"His note. It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note." Sherlock replied softly, holding the flimsy paper out to Lestrade. The older man took it gently, and began reading. Sherlock watched as his eyes began to fill with tears. He watched as Lestrade's hands started to shake, and he covered his mouth. A noise escaped the DI, and he covered it with a pathetic fake cough.

Lestrade read the note twice, then looked up at Sherlock, asking silently for his reaction.  
"I didn't know it could hurt more." Was all he said. Silently the two walked out, and Sherlock left the note at 's door. Lestrade had taken a picture, and decided he was going to read it out to the people of Scotland Yard who knew John. John would have liked it, Sherlock knew, he liked all those people. He'd want them to get closure, he saw it on Lestrade's face. That's what the note was giving him, and probably everyone who read it: closure. Not him, not Sherlock. All it did was make him hurt more. God how wrong could John be? Sherlock needed him more then oxygen.

* * *

When they pulled up to the scene, everyone stared at Sherlock. Openly pitying him, their sorrowful glances falling over him as he stood beside Lestrade as he ordered them to gather around. He heard the whispers, Lestrade had said they'd taken up in calling him a widow now. Lestrade cleared his throat, and everyone fell into silence. They expected orders but Lestrade announced that this was a reading of John H. Watson's final testament. Everyone stilled, a few people looked positively stricken, and Sally's eyes grew wide. Lestrade read it off over his phone, pausing to clear his throat and push back his tears. When he read the part where John asked Sherlock to annoy Anderson he saw the man in question hang his hide and smile slightly, he'd liked John even though they barely talked. It wasn't a happy smile, but a grief filled one. When the comment of Sally came up he saw the woman cover her mouth with her hand, and watched as she let her tears pool on her fingers. When it was done, everyone turned to Sherlock and gave small nods. All of them had weak, sad grins at the jokes John had made. Only he could do that, make all these people so desperately sad but feel the need to smile at the same time.

They continued on, and into the building where the body lay. Sherlock almost asked John to come look at it, but he stopped himself just in time. It was easy, quickly solved: The husband's lover came and shot her to win the man. He was only using her as a distraction from work, and had still loved his wife. Jealousy, need, want, and love. Oh yes. Sherlock mused as he glared down at the body Love certainly is funny, John. Open and shut, the lover had left plenty of evidence. Sherlock swept out of the room, and hailed a cab. "221B Baker street." Sherlock said on reflex, then shook his head. "No, no. Go to East London Cemetery."

"Right." The cabby nodded, giving a sympathetic smile and began making his way through London.

* * *

Mycroft had said that if anyone visited his grave-bench he would text him the video from the hidden camera that was set up. It was an absolutely absurd thing to do, but John just waved him off. He didn't expect anyone to visit it, why would they? When his phone rang as he lay on the bed in a hotel somewhere in Tokyo, he expected another pointless update on the team's proceedings or assurance everyone was fine. Instead it was a video of Sherlock, at his grave.

_Sherlock walked slowly up to the bench, and his face was pale, his eyes already bloodshot. "Am I meant to sit on your bench headstone, John?" He asked, and his voice sounded cracked. "Well I won't, it's impractical. It also seems a 'bit not good'." He gave a slow, pained smile that never reached his eyes as he quoted John's words. "I found your note. Lestrade read it to everyone at the yard, I e-mailed a copy to Harry and Clara, and left it for to read. It was meant to give closure, as those notes are. To assure us there was nothing we could do, that you loved us, and it was simply because of your own inner turmoil that you took your life. It helped all of them, but it didn't help me." Sherlock sucked in a breath, leveling his gaze to the ground. "Why John? Why did you leave me behind, isn't that my job? You know, you really are an idiot if you thought I didn't need you! I needed you, I still do! Everyday I try and delete that day, I try and delete you but I can't! You're imprinted in my every day life. God John, breathing hurts now! How could you do this? You left me with all these emotions, and I have no idea what any of them mean! You would know, you'd explain it all and it would make sense but you can't! You can't because you left." Sherlock kept his voice low, but he was angry. He pushed his palms into his eye sockets, taking slow, deep breaths. "I need you. You were the kindest, most amazing man. You were my conductor of light, but now the entire world is grey. I've never been this bored, John, and I've never hurt this badly. None of it is rational, but it's what my mind is doing. I just wish...you were here." Sherlock's voice cracked again, and he stepped closer, letting his gloved hand fall on the bench. "I want you to come home, John. I want you to stop this...just stop being dead." With that, Sherlock stopped talking because he knew if he continued, he'd break down then and there. He traced his fingers over John's name one last time, and turned to leave. He paused, his back to the camera and hung his head._

_"It's been an honor, Captain." Sherlock whispered, and the rain began to fall as if on cue. Sherlock didn't even flinch, he just pulled up his coat collar and let the water soak his curls. They hung over his brow, and he shivered slightly. Giving one last longing glance back to the headstone, then he turned and walked away briskly. _

"I'll come home Sherlock, I promise." John whispered to the empty air of his hotel room.


	4. Chapter 4

John tossed the phone at the wall, hearing the satisfying crack against the plaster as he sunk into the mattress. What had he done? What was he doing here, on this stupid island, in this overly technological city without Sherlock? This was Sherlock's game, why was he suddenly a player?

'It's been an honor, Captain.'

God those words burned in the silence of the dingy room. Everything was still, the air heavy and humid, the thrum of constant electricity vibrated in John's bones, and the entire city reeked of progress. He just wanted to be back in Baker Street, watching crap telly with Sherlock and trying to coax the man into eating. He'd tear apart Moriarty's web, rip it to shreds and strips and leave bloody, beaten, or dead criminal underlings in his wake.

It was all going to crumble, and he was going to be standing on top of the rubble, ending this stupid damn game.

* * *

Sherlock stomped into the flat, his feet leaving prints as he drug his aching body up the stairs. He was shaking from head to toe, and his muscles were heavy with drowsiness, hunger, and the faint hints of oncoming sickness. His curls clung to his skin like they were afraid he just rip them off, and that made him angry. The way a drop of water trailed down his nose and made it itch made him furious. Lastly the way his clothes suctioned to his skin sent him flying into a blind rage.

He'd gone to John's grave on a whim! All the mourners of the day had left by then and the sun was nearly setting when he'd finally arrived. He had no idea why he'd gone there, or why he'd started yelling at John's grave. He didn't understand why he asked him to stop, he couldn't just stop! He was dead, and no desperate plea would change that. It was a fact, it was a constant, it was the truth.

Never in his life had Sherlock hated truth and fact more.

He pushed a pile of books off the desk, growling at them. He blamed the very air around him for this pain, and he searched out every one of Mycroft's little camera's, destroying them in various ways, every one different. He left one, the one that faced John's chair, that was the camera he didn't dare touch. That camera had watched John everyday, it had seen all his smiles and strange habits. It witnessed his waves of rage, and his illogical forgiveness. It watched as he smiled about his new girlfriend, and watched when he slunk home after their final date. That camera had seen John everyday, at his best and his worst. It witnessed everything about that great, brave, kind idiot. It held some higher power that didn't make a pinch of sense to Sherlock, so he left it.

He scanned the books that were unceremoniously flung to the carpet, and one caught his eye. It was a poetry book he'd picked up for a case, and it'd fallen open to page 147. A simple poem, that it was, and Sherlock hadn't given it a second look when he'd first scanned the books pages. Now, as he read the lines oh so carefully he understood why people loved this poem so deeply.

_Don't stand beside my grave and weep, For I'm not there; I do not sleep._

_I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow,_

_I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain._

_When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush_

_Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft star-shine at night._

_Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there;_

_I did not die._

_-Mary Elizabeth Frye_

He left that book open and on the coffee table as he picked the rest up. That poem practically glowed as he continued in drying himself off and putting on his clothes. He read it again and again, and the next morning he found himself reciting it silently when came to check on him. His lips moved, mouthing every word over and over like an incantation. He accepted the tea he was offered without a thought, and was rushed off to another simple crime.

Easy to solve: The sister did it while she was high.

His mind barely left the poem to solve it, and he just sat thinking about it. Why? He didn't know, but something about the poem had left a settled peace over him. Not the warm acceptance everyone around him seemed to sport, but a hard wall of absolutely nothing. His feelings had vanished into that poem, and whenever he became tortured by memories of John he opened the window and felt the wind against his cheeks. He'd take in a deep breath of the sickly sweet taste of London air, and tip his head back. He'd listen to the people around him, and let the memories of John slowly slide away as the wind tousled his curls. It wasn't really John, it never would make up for his absence but it helped, and Sherlock needed a little help now. He wouldn't-no, couldn't- go back to the blissful world of drugs and hazy highs, it just wouldn't be enough. So the London air was his cocaine, and the buzzing of the streets his heroine, and he would get high off the city and push away the memories of his best friend.

The days passed in continued torture without the compact army doctor. It helped a little, because every time he felt the wind he could re-enforce his walls. He could build his resolve higher, and fall into a pattern. Tea, coffee, poem, pain, and a visit to the grave every Wednesday. Everyone knew that he'd visit the grave, Lestrade had even woken him up the few times he'd fallen asleep there. No one said a word, no one dared upset the balanced, glass world Sherlock created. They all saw of course, the vacancy where knowledge used to reside in those eyes. The tight line of his lips where a smirk usually sat, the lines of his face growing deeper with the frown he always wore. They all saw the fact he was barely sleeping, and that his weight was dropping drastically, but no one said a thing. His weight wasn't healthy, but he ate a little once a day, and he solved cases. He made rude comments, hardly as biting as before, and he snarled at Mycroft. It all seemed normal, but it wasn't. Lying just beneath the surface was the truth, the pain, and the nothing that consumed Sherlock's soul.

This wasn't like the nothing he had before, this wasn't him pushing away emotions, this was simply nothing. Everything else was dulled by the raw hurt that swam in his mind, and he grew so used to it as the month passed that it really felt like everything else was just nothing. The pain over shadowed it all, he could push it all away, everyone away. He could make everything leave until he was left with the burning emptiness, the nothing. He could get rid of it all, except the memories, those never left. He pushed at them, but they bounced back with determination. He tried to delete them, but the fought against it. So he lived with it, the empty hole in his chest, and the memories that cracked across his every thought. What John would say about whatever Sherlock was doing always echoed around his mind, and he stopped trying to make it go away. He stopped because sometimes, when he was alone in the flat, concentrating on a case and barely paying attention, he'd start an experiment. His mind would fly into his intellect, leaving 'the nothing' for a while and he could practically hear John's footsteps. He almost felt the heat rise from the dusty tea kettle that remained untouched, and the exasperated sigh seemed to actually fill the air.

Sometimes, Sherlock could work on the experiment and hear all the memories, feel all the every day things that used to mean so little, and he clung to them. He stopped because sometimes John could come back for just a moment, and sometimes his mind could be at peace.

* * *

John stared at the wall infront of him, trying to understand the German argument that had ensued around him. Shouts of words he'd never heard before rung his ears, and he just glared at that beige, blank wall; willing it all into darkness. Mycroft was sitting beside him, shouting in rapid, and biting, German at the stout man across the table.

Of course Mycroft would know German! John mused bitterly, shifting his eyes from the wall to the cherry wood grain of the table. The man before them was short, shorter then John, and nearly a perfect circle. His shirt buttons strained to keep the enormousness of his body confined within, and the chair creaked in protest whenever he flailed around his thick limbs in annoyance. John had been trying, and failing, to work with the dirty businessman and discover the where a bouts of Ronald Gorman, one of Moriarty's head German men. Apparently the small man, his name was something like Butch, had been working with good old Ron for three years, before taking up on his own. Mycroft had arrived hours ago, just in time to swoop in and save a floundering John.

was certainly not cut out for an underhanded, clever, and cunning battle. He was more the 'Hello, I'm here to shoot you' type, and he always stayed true to those words. So, when he was whisked away by Mycroft to fight this ridiculous battle-or game or hellish turn of events that makes him want to explode, whatever you prefer- he had no idea what he was getting into. He assumed it would take some unsavory deals and clever works to take down this web, it had taken them nearly a month to dismantle Moriarty's strong hold in Japan, but this was idiocy. Right now Mycroft was making false deals, promising money and immunity, and many other things-John was sure one of which was a mail order bride- just for a bloody location!

Captain Watson was done now.

"That's it!" John shouted, pushing to his feet. A bewildered Mycroft looked up at the blonde, eyes wide as the small man across the table nearly fell over. "Tell us where to find Gorman or I will take pleasure in using all my skills as a doctor to cause you a painful, and slow, death!" He growled, leaning over the table and locking his icy eyes with frightened hazel ones. John was never one for threats like this, but he was angry, hungry, and annoyed. His face was twisted into a frown that doubled as a promising-almost eager- smirk. His eyes put the lightening shock of fear right into the tiny man across from him's bones, and he nodded slowly.

"Gorman is in Erfurt!" Maybe Butch answered, his accented voice high with panic. "Please, I did not mean it Captain Watson." Watson sounded more like Vatson. "I apologize. Do not hurt me." He squeaked the last part, hiding his face behind thick arms, and shaking from head to toe.

"Right, thanks." John's face pulled into a lizard like grin, all teeth, and he turned on his heels, marching out the door.

Mycroft continued to pressure maybe Butch with questions for a better location, and by the next day John had shot one Ronald Gorman in the neck. Now, he was sitting in his hotel room, staring at his small travel bag and waiting for Mycroft to arrange a flight to Russia. He was alone with his thoughts yet again, and they swarmed his mind like locust. It was Wednesday, so he should be getting a video any time now of Sherlock. As if Mycroft knew that was what he was thinking about, he probably did, his phone dinged with the received video.

_"A month now." Sherlock's voice says as soon as he arrives. "31 days, and I've spent a multitude of them here, talking to a corpse 6 feet below my feet." He let out a huff of laughter, it sounded more like sob. "Funny, I thought you'd wish to be cremated. When Mycroft said there was a burial, I was a bit put off. Though, you never cease to surprise me, John Watson. Since the day we met you've given me small shocks, up until...that day. When you let me borrow your phone, I was perplexed-and admittedly curious. Then you shot the cabby, and I'm loath to admit that was a shock." Sherlock paused then, letting his breath catch in his throat. He sounded strangled, like he was being suffocated slowly and couldn't fight it, or chose not to._

_"Everyday you'd surprise me. Of course you followed a boring schedule, and you were predictable in many things, like your cycle of girlfriends. Still everyday you would insist on doing something I didn't see coming, you always kept it interesting." Sherlock stared at the ground, and let his chin drop to his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut. "It's not interesting anymore." Then, Sherlock left._

It was odd. Usually Sherlock went on about cases, and he never looked that heartbroken anymore. Usually he looked cold, hidden, and unfeeling, but today he was purely broken. John assumed it was because today marked a month since he fell, but he also knew there was something more.

* * *

Sherlock stared at the cold cup of tea sitting on the floor infront of him. He'd been sitting here, in the center of the main room, indian style and thinking, It was a month now, and he had refused to go outside. Interesting a month fell on a Wednesday, like fate had played a cruel little game with him. My God was he tired of games. The latest case was a game, a killer literally leaving game board pieces from Cluedo around the bodies. The first woman was killed by a knife, and long white hair was found on her body. Near her was the tiny knife replica from the game board and the game card for . The latest victim, killed by poison with scarlett lip prints on his cheek, would have caused Sherlock to be up and out the door in seconds if it hadn't been that day.

Johns grave was covered in flowers, it was utterly ridiculous looking. Pops of yellow, mixed with dull hues of red and pink and the giant bush of purple from . Sherlock hadn't left a flower, no flower could convey what John meant to him,had meant anyways. He nearly cried, again, and he'd forced himself to stop and it made his throat feel like it was burning and bleeding, again. He always felt so much pain on Wednesday's, it was startlingly in contrast to the nothing he'd adopted every other day, in every other place. But in that cemetery, near the grave, looking at those golden letters that taunted him he could never feel nothing.

Sherlock glowered at the tea, focusing all his pain and anger at it, blaming it until he couldn't understand what he was feeling. He reached out a pale hand and picked up the small mug, raising it to his eyes. He was hurting, and he wasn't thinking straight so he forgot for a moment that he was in view of Mycrofts camera. "I want John back!" He shouted at the cup, pushing back his tears as he hurtled it into the kitchen. The small green mug smashed against the fridge in a hurricane of ceramic and cold tea, spraying across the counter violently. Sherlock's hand was shaking, and his cheeks were flushed a violent shade of red when he finally locked eyes with the camera. Mycroft saw, he knew he did, he could feel it.

Sherlock knew his older brother would be there by tomorrow morning.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock stared intently at the wall, then fell backwards onto the couch and flopped his long limbs out. Throwing an arm over his eyes and sighing heavily he counted the seconds until his end: when Mycroft showed up.

_1, 2, 3, 4_

Mycroft would probably put him into a mental facility, which might not be so bad. Meds might drown out John's calming voice in the halls of his mind palace, maybe his ghost wouldn't walk the rooms of his brilliant thoughts, reminding him of the one puzzle he didn't put together fast enough.

_24, 25, 26, 27_

Mycroft might assume he's on drugs, it would be logical. Many people coped with the death of close friends and family that way, drowning it in alcohol or drugs. Sherlock could see where everyone he knew was getting the assumptions, Lestrade would look at him the way he did before John and rehab. Sherlock would freeze during a case and take a deep breath of the London air, trying to steady the need to ask John what he saw. He'd stare at the lights of the city, trying to ignore the deep need to smell tea and hear horrible telly. Zoning in and out in the middle of sentences, almost expecting the 'Brilliant' to ring out in that calm tenor that was just John. It really would be worrying to outside parties, but in his head it was all just a way to ignore the gnawing feelings. How could you go from emotionless to dependent and caring because of one man? Irrational. All of it.

_89, 90, 91, 92_

Any second now, Mycroft would walk in. Of course it was Thursday and he wouldn't be busy running the country and-_Wait._ It's Thursday.

**It's John's birthday.**

Sherlock couldn't control how rapid his pulse became, or how his breathing broke from his longs in sharp blades. His hands were shaking, and his eyes burnt with tears. If he wasn't aware of the impossibility of breaking the heart, because it's a muscle, and you'd have to tear it, he would have been certain his was cracking into pieces, again.

_142, 143, 144, 145_

Why did this happen everyday? Sometimes when he woke up it'd happen, he'd notice the heavy silence that encased the flat. Occasionally, it'd be during an experiment when he'd expected to be screamed at and his heart sunk at the lack of shrieking, then it'd promptly shatter. Rarely it broke when Sherlock asked for his phone and the words would hang in the heavy air. 'My phone, John.' He'd repeat and the realization would slam against him so hard the muscle seemed to spontaneously combust.

Once it was at a case. He had no idea how the victim died, and Anderson kept talking and Sally hadn't called him freak once! It was all wrong, wrong, wrong. He'd burst to his feet and glared fire at the body, his brain shorting out at the lack of knowledge on how the victim died. Sherlock almost yelled it, he'd opened his mouth ready to screech _'John!'_ at the top of his lungs and it all faltered. The consulting detective squeaked, and his entire face went pale as his eyes clouded. It was different then the other times, the everyday heartbreaking that he woke up too. It was slow, like someone was scratching over his emotions, slowly reminding him that John. Was. Gone. Then it cracked, like an earthquake was wracking his entire body and it burst into flaming pieces in his chest.

Now was different, now was a sudden rush that left him reeling. John's birthday, he had a gift he'd bought three days before the fall sitting in his closet. It wasn't a very good gift, a new jacket because frankly, John's annoyed him with it's little tear on the shoulder. It was wrapped and ready, ready for nothing, since it's intended recipient was gone. Sherlock came out of his head long enough to realize his lips were still counting.

_500, 501, 502, 503_

The door downstairs opened, and a startled stuttering from alerted Sherlock to his brothers arrival. Lovely.

_504 seconds._

"Sherlock." Mycroft announced as he threw the flat door open, looking down at his brother and his entire face went blank. Sherlock eyed the older man, watching his mouth open and close and his eyes widen. "Sherlock?" His voice was low and quiet, dripping with true concern.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, and he realized his own voice was watery and cracking. Suddenly he became aware of the itch on his cheeks, and the salty smell of tears. "Oh."

"Crying, little brother? How pedestrian." Mycroft had clicked back into his smug tone, giving the slightest eye roll. "Why?"

"Don't be an idiot, Mycroft." Sherlock growled, pulling the sleeve of his dressing gown over his eyes. "You know what day it is."

"It's Thursday the-_Oh!_" Mycroft looked embarrassed, which almost made Sherlock smile. Almost. "What are you going to do?"

"Strawberry." Sherlock replied, rolling onto his stomach to stifle the tears he felt falling over him.

"Strawberry?"

"Cake. John's favorite. Mrs. Hudson is baking it." Sherlock mumbled into the pillow, and he heard Mycroft sniff the air and give a grunt of agreement.

"I must be going." Mycroft said, tapping the umbrella on the door frame when he turned back. "You need to move on, you know."

"Move on to what?" Sherlock growled into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. "A life without John? Boring." Mycroft gave a heavy sigh, and if Sherlock didn't know better he'd think that he heard guilt in his voice. The door slammed and Sherlock was left alone to cry his silent tears, and to try and feel nothing again.

It never worked.

* * *

John was sneaking into a Russian drug dealers house, armed with nothing and with back up ten minutes away. "This is not how you celebrate a birthday." He grumbled to himself, covering the old bathroom window in duct-tape. He put his jacket over his elbow and slammed it into the window at the angle the old thief had taught him in Germany, and heard the satisfying crunch of glass breaking. John continued with the procedure of taking the window out and crawling in-about as gracefully as a confused walrus- before sneaking into the dimming light of the living room. The wife was skinny, with dark hair pulled into a comically high ponytail and a soft pink dress fluttering as she skated across the living room carpet. John would have laughed if his pulse wasn't so loud he thought the woman could hear it! It was like pleasant ville puked her out; long hair, curled at the end of the ponytail, a pink scrunchy matching the dress to perfectly, and sparkling lip gloss coating her mouth. Stupidly perfect. He pushed his body against the wall beside the bathroom, and watched as the woman practically danced into the kitchen to meet her husband. John followed like a dog, hiding just around the corner and took in the site. He'd expected some ugly brute in a wife beater with a beard, and sweat stains all over his clothes. The man before him was no Moriarty, but he was put together.

Blonde hair parted just off center and gelled to look well kept but not overly done. A button up, baby blue shirt and black trousers with shoes that shined to brightly. John tried to recall the names of the Anikanov's. Oh yes:Rachel and Richard. Oh how ridiculously adorable, matching first names. They hugged, but the woman looked uncomfortable. It was all perfect, like an American sitcom gone wrong. Richard gave an award winning smile that made John's stomach role and patted his wife's hand as he made his way towards the fridge for what John thought was a snack.

He was wrong, like usual.

Richard swung out 357 Magnum revolver out from a drawer and for a frightening second John thought he was found. Dying on my birthday, doesn't that just scream ironic? Or depressing. But then the maniac pointed the silver barrel to his wife, who simply hung her head in acceptance.

"I loved you, Rachel, but your simply a loose end now." American. Richard's voice was painfully American, rolling the 'R' in Rachel hinted toward something. New York? John didn't know, he didn't care. Then Richard said something in Russian, with a perfect Russian lilt and john's head span, trying to recall the data on this man.

_Russian by birth, boarding school in America. Graduated there and went to Uni-no college, bloody Americans and their strange school systems- for less then a year before dropping out. Russian-American,drug dealing,drop out who looked like the perfect husband? This __cannot__ be my life_.John's head span with his thoughts, but he was brought back by the sound of a safety being released.

"No, Richard!" Her accent was purely Russian, and coated in fear as she put her hands up in surrender. He simply smiled sadly at his wife and lifted the gun level with her head.

Before John could think soldier instincts crept up and he was pouncing on the man, sending a blow the the man's gun wielding arm, and the revolver went flying into the bedroom off the kitchen. Before the Russian could react, John had swung a left hook into his jaw and sent him tumbling backward into the counter. Where he happened to pick up a very nice_ butcher knife._ The man's blue eyes were blown wide, and the pupils danced all over John wildly. Richard was tall, taller then Sherlock if John remembered correctly, and he was wielding a giant fucking knife. _And oh fuck this wasn't going to be a good birthday._

John reacted on instinct, sending a kick to the other mans groin and diving for a weapon. The other man faltered for a long second, but brought the knife down on John's upper right arm when he recovered. John rolled from the blade, but it grazed his bicep and he felt the blood began to flood out. Not a serious injury but it hurt like a son of a gun. John kicked out his feet in desperation, but nothing connected and the other man was looming above him, knife ready to be brought down. John's hand shot out for something, anything and finally his fingers clasped around something metal. Swinging his left arm around he brought the unknown object up in a flurry of iron and desperation, and it smashed against the Russian's jaw. The man's mouth shifted painfully, and unhinged as he collapsed to the floor with a howl. Blood pooled from Richard's nose, and his mouth hung open slightly from the blow. He was breathing, John noted as he stood, but unconscious. The wife was hiding in the back corner of the kitchen, shaking from head to toe and looking very intent on fainting. Finally John looked down to his weapon, and savior, and gaped at the object in his hand.

_A frying pan._

He'd just avoided being stabbed and broke a Russian drug dealers jaw via frying pan. What kind of birthday was this? The last three minutes before his team got there were spent staring intently at a frying pan and trying to stop his arm from bleeding. The wife was curled on the floor and seemed content in mumbling prayers in Russian and staring at John like he was an avenging angel. When everyone finally arrived it spun in a haze, the team collecting data about the unconscious Russian's contacts and the rest of Moriarty's prominent people in Russia. Game, set, match John supposed, his fun little vacation to the land of angry sounding people was nearly over. Awesome. That much closer to getting home, to Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, looking at a single plate with a single piece of cake on it. Beside it was a cooling cup of tea and at his feet was a sadly wrapped present. Sherlock wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, and disappear. He wanted to throw things and curl in ball, he wanted to hit people, and himself. Mostly he wanted John to be here on his birthday, John to be here in general. He was alone, asked if he wanted to visit John's grave, and he'd snapped at her. Yelling about how it wasn't Wednesday and he had no business at John's grave on a Thursday! Don't be an idiot.

Perhaps he should have gone.

Now he was alone with his slice of strawberry cake, and he didn't even like strawberry, he only pretended to for John, and his ears were ringing with silence. The tea was John's favorite also, and the fork was one of the 'special forks' Sherlock wasn't allowed to use without supervision, for fear he'd use it to poke the eyeballs. The plate was John's mother's, stolen from Harry to protect it from drunken rages, and it had meant a great deal to John.

_Sentiment._

Sherlock used to laugh at it, but now he was eating John's favorite cake, drinking John's favorite tea, using all John's special dishes and flatware just to feel close to him. Ridiculously normal and dull, and so damn comforting it hurt. He was still empty inside, still cold and hollow without John to make the world see him as human. John had been a window, he'd translated Sherlock's harsh words so people understood, he'd listened to others and Sherlock, and translated so perfectly. He'd shown everyone that Sherlock was a man, a genius, but a man, and he'd shown Sherlock that sometimes you had to listen to the idiots. Now his window was gone, and he was hiding in the darkness left behind. He never really wanted to come out now, his conductor of light was gone, so really there was no light.

No light, no point, only nothing. Nothing, that's what he felt. That was what filled his days. Nothing was the noise that filled the flat where laughter used to be. Nothing was what stood in the places where John used to stand. Nothing told him he was brilliant, human, someone worth being around. Nothing made him smile like the childish giggles of his flatmate did. Nothing made his job mean more then just being some puzzle like a certain ex-army doctor had. Nothing made Sherlock feel like John Watson had.

Was there a point? No, no point, nothing. John wanted him to keep living, so he would, but it wouldn't be living. It'd be darkness and despair where light and happiness in the form of a 5 something doctor with an addiction to adrenalin used to reside. The life without John to make it all better, to make it interesting, to make it matter was simply nothing. _Like everything else._

Nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

"I. Do. Not. Understand!" John shouted back at the short woman in front of him for the tenth time. It earns him an entire 20 second pause, topped with a raised eyebrow and a look that says 'Your dumb, shut up and let me talk', before she broke back into rapid fire Mongolian.

"Ta minii nom delgüürees ta nar Amyerik ruu irj chadakhgüi!" She shouted at him again, and John considered that he was very possibly being called American, again, and just glared down at her.

_Where the hell's my translator_? He lowered in his head while repeatedly being called an idiotic American, and being shoved towards the glass doors leading out of the book shop. She pressed her small hands into his back and pushed her weight against him, shouting angrily and making what he assumed to be threats- it sounded more like some chant to summon a cat spirit, but then John realized that thought was probably racist and ignored it. He glanced down at the middle aged woman, who glared so much he thought she may have closed her eyes. She was stuffy, he could tell by how she was dressed: Black hair pulled into a bun that pulled the skin on her forehead slightly, ridiculously fake looking earrings, to much eye shadow, lots of lipstick, tight business dress that was made for a woman much younger, and her nose pinched whenever she looked at something she didn't like. Mainly John.

Sherlock would tear her to shreds in a second.

"Bi Moriarty tukhai yuu ch khelj baina. Amyerik üldeegeerei!" She shouted, and John had a horrible feeling that was a confession of loyalty. Mongolia was the least densely populated country in the world, where the hell could Moriarty's head boy scout be hiding out? He'd already gone through all the major cities, and was beginning to doubt Mycroft's informants when something hit him in the head. When John turned around he saw the magazine falling to the floor, and looked up at the woman, who had a rolled up newspaper raised above her head.

"You cannot be serious." He sighed, and the woman came running at him before he had time to react in anyway. She began beating his arm-it was raised to defend his face from paper cuts- and shouting horrible things that probably involved the mutilation of John's dead body, or kidnapping of his first born child. His arm felt a bit like it was slowly burning, and the woman was jumping up an down like a rabid cat, beating down on him viciously. When a blow from the financial section connected with his nose, John began to consider the many ways he could hide this woman's body if he did in fact kill her.

By the time the paper gave him a nice stinging cut down his forearm, he'd already written off hiding the body and decided to see if Mycroft could cover up a murder. It would be an interesting theory to test, really, to see how far that man and his umbrella's power stretched. John had probably been the punching bag for what appeared to a crazed bee killers rage for around 3 minutes before a very confused, and slightly amused, translator finally walked in the door.

After an hour of a three way conversation between two people, both the translator and John were being pelted with hardcover books and threatened in very colorful ways. The translator informed John of every threat the woman explained, in great detail, and John's personal favorite was the one where she was going to torture him to death by giving him so many paper cuts he had a stroke. Which really, probably, was medically impossible but was to busy trying to carry a table as a make shift shield and run to the door to care.

And he thought the frying pan fiasco of Russia was bad.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting across from a short blonde woman who looked like she was in the first steps of sobriety. Her blonde hair, obviously died to cover up the grey, was cut short in the past few weeks and had many strange layers. Somehow it was meant to be fashionable, but Sherlock was still convinced she was trying to be a porcupine. She was sporting a jean jacket, black shirt, and torn jeans, all ended with her frighteningly red trainers. They'd been sitting in silence, her on the couch and he perched in his chair, ever since she'd knocked on his door.

"Sherlock Holmes" He had answered, acting like he hadn't the faintest who she was.

"Harry Watson." She'd smiled, and her voice was annoyingly high pitched. Sherlock noted that her eyes were greener then John's, and her ears were far smaller. The siblings had the same nose, and, probably to the embarrassment of John, she was an inch taller then his late friend. Her nose had a piercing, and he could see a tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of her jacket.

Harry Watson; 45, nose piercing to undermine her very petite and feminine appearance. Tattoo to annoy her father. Clean since John's...fall. Had a fight with Clara this morning-no last night. Hair cut: New, a way to move on from John. Shirt, Jeans, Shoes: New, bought by Clara as a thank you for her sobriety. Jacket: Old, John's, given to her before his first time going to Afghanistan. Here because? That's where his deductions ended as the woman let herself in, flashing a smile nothing like John's. Yes, hers had the family spark that all Watson's probably sported but it was less caring and calm. Far less understanding, more silly and energetic then John's.

Sherlock tried to ignore how Harry walked with the same swagger as John when she plopped into the couch, just like John had. The siblings were certainly more similar then John had ever let on, and addiction obviously ran in the family. "My brother really liked you." She laughed, nodding her head towards the skull on the mantel. "He really never liked the way skulls looked. Complained every Halloween."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock growled, trying to move past any subject pertaining to John.

"I wanted to meet the man my brother liked so damn much." Her voice wasn't as annoying as Sherlock had originally thought, but he was still angry at her for looking so much like John.

"Well here I am." Sherlock spread his arms out to give her a view of him, and she gave him a slow up-down before nodding.

"I'm not even into men and I can see why Johnny blushed whenever we brought you up." She teased, leaning back against the sofa and crossing her ankles. Sherlock froze. John blushed when people mentioned him? That was new information. "You two weren't together?"

"No."

"Seriously? Why the fuck not?" Her eyes bugged, and Sherlock nearly laughed at how bewildered she appeared. Accept he never laughed, not anymore. "Johnny was never someone who let what he wanted get away. Did you turn him down?"

_Was. _

She talked in past tense, she's accepted his death, she's ready to admit John was never coming back. Sherlock wasn't.

"I consider myself married to my work." Sherlock repeated to the other Watson, feeling the raw Déjà vu wash over him.

"Should've had an affair." She replied nearly immediately, leveling a green-blue glare on Sherlock. "You missed out."

"John never tried to pursue a non-platonic relationship with me."

"Your an idiot." Harry laughed, and Sherlock felt the pang that came every time something reminded him of John. God, why couldn't his sister be different then him?

"Kind of you to say." Sherlock bit out, eyeing the woman in front of him. She was being distant, cold, she blamed him for John's death. He was so close to strangling this woman it was frightening. Honestly, if anyone could get away with murder it was Sherlock Holmes.

"Well I'll be off then, have a good one." She smiled, she was actually happy. Still grieving, but happy with her life and her wife. Sherlock was almost certain he knew how to dispose of her body.

"Same to you." He smiled his fake charming smile and watched her leave, ignoring all homicidal impulses as she stomped down the stairs and startled Mrs. Hudson.

Now Sherlock was alone in his flat, thinking over Harry's words. He tore them through his mind, analyzing each separate syllable before putting them back together and considering the entire sentence, then conversation. John had appeared to be romantically interested in him? How had he not seen that? There's always something!

Sherlock resigned to the conclusion he was probably to busy trying to ignore his own romantic interests in his flatmate to consider that they may not be unrequited.

* * *

John phoned Mycroft that night, and asked if he could, actually, cover up a murder if John was so inclined. Mycroft asked him if he was sick.

"No! I'm just wondering what you and your umbrella can really do!" John grunted into the phone, and had a momentary mental picture of Mycroft as Mary Poppins. He promptly started giggling.

"Are you doing drugs?" Mycroft asked through the phone, actual human sounding emotions slipped though his tone and John laughed again.

"I'm not on drugs!" John giggled back, trying to take a deep breath. "I'm just amused."

"Frightening." Mycroft sniffed. "Your sister visited my brother this evening."

"Oh?" That shocked him back into reality.

"Yes, they had a very interesting conversation." Mycroft paused, and John was sure it was just for dramatics. "About your romantic interest in Sherlock."

"W-what?" John choked on the air, if that was possible, and nearly dropped the phone.

"I had suspected, but to be perfectly honest I was never sure, until now." John could hear that jackass smirk on Mycroft's face. Not for the first time he considered punching the British government.

"I'm not-there is no romantic interest."

"Sexual then?" Mycroft chirped, sounding rather pleased to have his little puzzle solved. "Quite rude you only want my brother in a physical sense."

"I don't just want him sexually!" There was an amused/pleased sound from the other end, and John slapped his own forehead at his wording. "I mean, I don't want him in a sexual way at all! We're friends, that's all!"

"Friends that act like a married couple."

"It happens."

"No, it doesn't." Mycroft's voice went hard suddenly, and John blinked. "Don't lie to me John, it's futile."

"Goodbye, Mycroft." John then hung up, ignoring the laugh he was certain he heard before the line cut off. "Bloody Mycroft!" He growled into the empty hotel room, throwing his hands up and flopping backwards onto the bed. "C'mon Harry, did you have to?" He asked the ceiling, and glared when it resolutely remained silent.

Did it matter if he was romantically interested in Sherlock? The man was asexual, or Irene-sexual (that thought made John fill with what he refused to acknowledge as jealousy), and he wouldn't want someone like John anyways.

* * *

"John!" Sherlock shouted at the bench-grave. It was late, very late, and no one was around when he stomped up to the flower covered object. "Your sister is infuriating. She's also considering having a baby with Clara, thought you'd like to know." Sherlock glared down at the bench-grave before sitting on the grass. "She...said, well insinuated, a few things about you." He took a deep breath, why did he feel apprehensive, he was talking to a headstone! "About your feelings...for me. That they may be a bit more then platonic. Or, at least, they had been."

"I never noticed, and that's what bothers me the most." Sherlock continued after a long silence. "Was it true, or is your sister just fabricating these things? I must investigate." Sherlock jumped to his feet, and clapped his hands together. "Perhaps this will be a puzzle worth solving." He grimaced at the thought of bringing up all his repressed memories of John, but he had to know.

Had John really wanted him?

* * *

"Only you, Sherlock, only you." John smiled, watching the short visit on his mobile one last time before turning it off. Only Sherlock Holmes would be excited at investigating his thought-to-be-dead best friend's romantic feelings. John was a bit cross with his emotions being called a puzzle, but if it entertained Sherlock for a while he could survive it.

He just hoped Sherlock wouldn't find the answer, because that would make coming home all the more awkward.

Notes: **Ta minii nom delgüürees ta nar Amyerik ruu irj chadakhgüi!: Get out of my bookstore you idiotic American!**  
**(Or something along those lines)**  
**Bi Moriarty tukhai yuu ch khelj baina. Amyerik üldeegeerei: I am loyal to Moriarty. Leave American!**  
**That was the goal, so ya'know. Close enough?**


	7. Chapter 7

"John." Mycroft's voice floated through the phone like pollution, and John scowled out the window.

"Mycroft, _lovely_ to talk to you." John hissed, watching the cars on the road five stores down.

"Yes, wonderful." Mycroft sounded like he just agreed to assassinate the Queen. "You're to be in China by morning. Your car will be arriving soon." This is where they hung up, every time John had to move from where he was stationed the conversation would go similarly. This is where they hung up.

"How is he?" John blurted before he could loose the nerve. There was a surprised noise from the other end of the line, obviously Mycroft hadn't expected anything from their usual routine.

"Disgustingly sentimental." Mycroft layered his voice with political disconnection, but John heard the hitch. Sherlock was his little brother, and he was in pain. Mycroft wasn't a robot- John had asked Sherlock with alarming frequency about that- he had to feel something. "He's taking every pathetic crime Detective Inspector Lestrade brings him, and he's eating less than when he was using."

"When?" John demanded, ignoring the tears that pricked his eyes. "When can I go home?"

"Undetermined at this time." Mycroft said, convincing John yet again that he was a cyborg. "Your car is here."

"I better have a translator this time. I'm tired of arguing with people in sign language." John hissed, violently hanging up. Or as violently as one can hang up on an iPhone, which looked more like you were angrily poking something. He took a deep breath, going over the few words of Chinese he knew. He was tremendously tired of arguing with people, having to call up his miming ability just to identify himself. He never thought there would be so much negotiating with the lackeys of a psychopath.

John much preferred the criminals from London, he could shoot them.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the center of the main room in their-No,his- flat, pouring various liquids over an apple. He didn't know what he was doing, he didn't have viable argument to why he was pouring toxic materials on an unsuspecting apple. There was no short, blonde, army doctor to explain himself to anyways, so it didn't matter. He was holding a vile of acid, and thinking perhaps he ought to put something under the apple before pouring this on when he heard the door downstairs open. Mrs. Hudson sounded surprised, but no unhappy. So not a criminal here to give Sherlock something interesting to do.

"Brother dear." _Mycroft?_ Again! Twice in two weeks. Sherlock focused his attention on the apple, wondering what horrible thing he must have done to deserve this. Nothing short of geneside came to mind.

"Mycroft." Sherlock snarled, tipping the acid bottle and watching it spread across the apple's skin.

"That isn't sanitary or safe." Mycroft chided, dropping onto the couch. He still avoided John's chair, everyone did. "What will Mrs. Hudson say?"

"She might raise my rent, which would only effect you." Sherlock mumbled, standing and perching on his chair. "Why are you here?"

"I'm concerned. " Mycroft said, tilting his head a fraction. "You really need to move on from this sentiment, Sherlock. I have been looking around and there are some wonderful flats on-"

"No!" Sherlock shouted, lunging forward a bit. Mycroft fell backwards in surprise, eyes wide as he clutched his umbrella like a life line. "I'm not leaving Baker Street. It's home."

"Is it home, or was he?" Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor, having righted himself and looking impecible again.

"That's ridiculous, a person cannot be home. Home is a place." Sherlock cursed his brother's intellgence. Couldn't he have been gifted with an idiot as a brother?

"You cannot remain caught up on the late doctor forever."

"I won't." Sherlock hissed, eyes flicking to the desk where his 'investigation' into John's feelings was strewn out in pictures and charts.

"I certainly hope not." Mycroft's face flashed into an emotion Sherlock had caught last time they'd met. Guilt? Hurt? Sorrow? He couldn't place it.

"I've moved on." Sherlock lied, glaring at the floor. He didn't need his brother catching onto his plan now. He'd stop him, surely, he'd put him into some sort of mental health center. They'd give him mind numbing drugs for depression, and he'd live a vacant life in false happiness. He didn't need drugs to make him content, he didn't need anything.

It was all going to be over soon anyways.

"Don't try to lie to me." Mycroft sniffed, making his way towards the door. "I'll see you soon, brother dear." He smiled his sicking smile and floated out the door, slaming it shut behind him. Sherlock sat in his chair, hanging his head. He couldn't hide his plans from his brother much longer, he had to solve the mystery of John's emotions soon. He had to know. Slowly he made his way to the desk, looking it all over. He'd asked other people's opinions, he'd taken polls, he'd even snooped through John's laptop. So far the results were inconclusive, but leaned towards yes. Yes, John had feelings for him, not quiet platonic feelings.

He could solve this mystery, then he could finish his plan before Mycroft could stop him. Then all this pain, all these spiraling thoughts, everything would be over.

* * *

China was not what he expected. He wasn't an idiot, he knew there wouldn't be rice farmers yelling at him about his honor but this startlingly modern city was a surprise. He was only here for a week, now he was being whisked off to America. All the smaller rings and countries would be handled by Mycroft's teams, so he should be home by years end.

Hopefully.

No one actually knew when he was supposed to be home but he had hope. Now, towards the end of the China expedition, Mycroft had growing worry that when they reached English speaking countries he'd recognized. So from America to France he was to be in disguise. He was growing his hair long, and it curled ever so slightly at the ends, and Mycroft had made him dye it chocolate brown. Mycroft said that when he went to France he was to dye it black, then bleach it and make it ginger red when they finally made it back to the UK.

John felt like so many different kinds of idiotic he couldn't help but laugh.

He had to wear hoodie all the time now, and a leather jacket. Mycroft even arranged for him to have a motorcycle brought with. John felt like some confused biker, having a mid life crisis. His Chinese translator had taught him an Irish accent, and he now spoke like he'd grown up in Dublin. John honestly though Mycroft's insistence he dye his hair red when in the UK,mixed with this accent, was some sort of cruel joke.

He was looking in the mirror, ruffling his strangely dark hair. It wasn't as dark as Sherlock's, more of a soft brown, and it made John look tanner. It was odd, having long hair, he had no idea what to with it. Style it? This is why the military cut was easier, far less to think about. Plus he hated his wavy hair, an girlfriend used to call it 'adorable like goldy locks'. That was the end of that.

He could only imagine Sherlock's reaction when John returned, sounding like a native Irishman, and sporting firey red hair.

* * *

**Hope you like it so far! Reviews/likes all that shit is deeply loved. :D**

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Quick note: **_I know it's February! But I needed some Christmas feels. Thank Mrs. Hudson in advance! Mystrade will be apparent. _

* * *

John collapsed onto the hospital bed, mentally murdering 'Brad' the funny little sketch artist that doubled as a drug smuggling git! The man was in some secret prison of Mycroft's-because yes, everyone has their own personal fucking prison-but John wanted to rip his throat out. He'd been America for three weeks now, and he was prepared to deem Moriarty's members here the most violent, half witted, jackasses that he's ever faced. He had three bruised ribs, a contusion in his right wrist, and at least seven gashes that'd result in scars. He'd been called the same spiral of ten names that were considered offensive in American slang at least 80 times. He was still trying to figure out what a 'rat bastard' was, and why it's different from a normal bastard. 'Brad', whose name was so obviously fake it hurt-who the hell was named Brad Smith?- had loved calling John an ass hat, with different terms thrown in for good measure. had oh so kindly slashed John up from his left side, right under the last rib, all the way to his arm pit and left him to 'paint the town red' as he put it. One of the team members, who John didn't even bother remembering the name of anymore, seeing as they changed weekly, had chased the bastard down and blown his knee caps out.

"Oh Christmas in a hospital, brilliant!" John sneered at the empty room, cursing it with his very soul at this point. Everything was wrong, wrong, wrong! He was being chased by endless amounts of knife wielding underlings, and every time they saw him they all asked the same question.

"Aren't you dead?" John was so tired of that particular phrase that he always deemed it with the answer: "Yeah I am." Then they'd stare at him in confusion and it would commence is a fist fight, a great number of which left John aching and bleeding. This was the worst holiday season he'd had in years, it even topped the one were Harry came out of the closet and his parents treated them to silence until Harry gave up and moved out Christmas eve. John wanted to summon Satan to kill all of Moriarty's people, he wanted to cry out for Sherlock just to hug the idiotic genius, he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of decorations the people of Wisconsin had hung around their capital city, and he wanted to go home.

It'd been 6 months now, and he was so heavy with guilt he was sure he'd put on a stone or two. Sherlock's 'investigation' into his feelings was hitting a dead end, and last Wednesday the curly haired man had a near mental break down at John's grave-bench. John had a suspicion that Sherlock had something else going on, not another investigation, but some half cocked plan of some kind. He needed to get home, he needed to end this stupid game, and he really needed to stop hearing about the Green Bay Packers.

* * *

Sherlock had three bottles of Lorazepam and a large storage of the strongest vodka his homeless network could come up with. He didn't do much research on the dosage, or the lethal dosage that is, because Mycroft surely would have put it together from his browsing history. Anything above 6 mg should do it, he was told, so he was going to take three bottles, chase it down with Vodka, and hope the homeless know what their talking about. He'd spread out the people he asked to collect things, varying his requests all over the city so none of the cleverer members put it together. This should work-No-this would work. It had to.

Even 'The Work' wasn't enough without John.

Sherlock was sitting in his living room, sorting through the John floor of his mind palace to try and place all the facial expression.

John looking him after a chase, pupils blown so dark the denim blue was barely a ring around the ebony.

John typing-if you could call it that- on his laptop, his breath hitching, pulse racing when Sherlock whispered in his ear.

John living lingering touches on Sherlock's arms, shoulders, hands, everywhere when he was checking for injuries.

All of these things pointed to the obvious John had romantic feelings towards Sherlock, but the mad genius was having trouble accepting that. He'd had partners in the past, no matter what Mycroft or Moriarty thought, but the relationship was always more for the sex. Neither party developed a very emotional attachment, at least non like the one he had with John. Love? By the definitions he'd found in books, and gotten from people, it seemed to fit into that category. No, no that wasn't good enough. The way he felt about John, that wasn't something you put into one word.

Love, yes. Devotion, completely. Annoyance, most definitely. Dependence, obviously. All those things, and so many more adjectives swirled around the floor that held John in his mind palace. He wasn't prepared to accept those feelings, tucking all the words into a closet in the corner and ignoring them, when John was alive, but now he was gone. Gone forever, and Sherlock could never tell him how he felt. John Watson turned a sociopath into a love sick puppy, he'd have laughed at that. From the evidence so far, he'd probably have also kissed Sherlock.

Kissing John? Sherlock collapsed onto his couch, flinging his arm over his eyes, and took a deep breath. He had wanted to kiss John since the man shot that cabbie, he wanted to pull him onto his tip toes and snog him until his thin lips were bruised. Now, John was gone and all Sherlock had was a few images caught in his head and a great deal of fantasies. Now, as Sherlock walked through John's floor in his mind Palace, he caught glimpses of memories and it was all so **obvious. **

John had wanted him, not as quickly as Sherlock had wanted John, but he had. These past months he'd practically posted it on his blog, he'd written it in every movement, every word, every breath and Sherlock was blind! Blinded by Moriarty and his useless game! It had been fun, and it had kept him from being bored but that didn't matter now. Now John was gone, and the game had ended. Moriarty hadn't tried anything recently, but his little pet Moran had killed a few people in Manchester.

Pointless. _Dull._

John was gone, John loved him, he'd loved a sociopathic fool who drove him mad and left severed head's in the fridge, but now he was gone. He'd left before Sherlock even had a chance to realize he was in love, that they were in love. Sherlock had known he was physically attracted to John from the beginning, but pushed it away because John was straight, or he'd assumed so. Bisexual seemed more likely now. Love? No, he hadn't realized how much he cared for John until the pool, love was inconceivable. Now John was gone, Sherlock was desperately in love, and Moriarty had ended the game. Nothing was left for the genius, so he may as well follow John in oblivion.

Sherlock reached out a pale hand for the pills hidden under the couch, stealing himself a deep breath, one last moment to reconsider. He wrapped long fingers around the first bottle, bringing his hand back up, and letting icy eyes flit over the information displayed there.

"Oh dear, tell me you've eaten today?" Mrs. Hudson's worried voice carried up the stairs, followed by light footsteps. Sherlock sighed, dropping the bottle into the couch cushion to hide it and swung long legs over the side.

"I suppose you'll be making me eat now even if I said yes." He replied as she bustled into the room, and the woman grinned.

"It's Christmas tomorrow, we're going to have a little party." Mrs. Hudson smiled, her eyes landing on John's chair, she gave a sad sigh. "Just like the last one, he'd have loved it."

"Yes, he would have." Sherlock agreed, ignoring the fact he'd thought it was still November. After Christmas, he'd end it all after Christmas. For Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

Christmas morning in a hospital was probably the most depressing thing ever. John glared at the movie on the tv screen, Miracle on 34th street, and cursing everyone for being so happy. His nurse came in, smiled, gave him a cookie and left. Mycroft called him, wished him a happy Christmas, and reminded him to keep the Irish accent heavy, his British lilt was slipping through and that 'was most certainly unacceptable, John. Wouldn't want to be discovered after all this time and work, would you?'

If John had his Russian frying pan, he'd probably have thrown it hard enough to fly across the Atlantic Ocean and knock the British Government on his arse.

It was already late in London, or at least he thought it was. The time difference between Wisconsin and London was bloody ridiculous. He hoped Sherlock was having an alright Christmas, Mrs. Hudson would make sure he did something. Mycroft had said she was having a small party late in the evening for everyone close to Sherlock-and John, but he was dead there wasn't he? Mycroft was going, apparently Lestrade had insisted he go. John had a sneaking suspicion their relationship wasn't as just colleagues anymore. John was alone for Christmas, singing a song of self hatred in his mind and watching the same movies 'ABC Family' had shown for weeks over and over.

In the amazingly articulate ways the people around him would put it:

This totally sucked.

* * *

"Mycroft." Sherlock sneered, plucking viciously at his violin. His older brother smiled, swinging his umbrella and stepped inside, trailed by Lestrade. Sherlock's eyes blew so wide it hurt, and he took in their appearance in a second.

Crooked buttons, slightly wrinkled waist coat, a few hairs out of place, pink cheeks, dilated pupils on Mycroft.

Hair spiked in places, flattened in others, walking a little crooked, favoring right side, hint of bit mark under collar on Lestrade.

Sherlock nearly vomited then and there. His brother, and his DI? No, no, nope, not happening, NO! Sherlock shook his head so hard he thought his brain may have actually turned to mush. "You 'bottomed' as they say, Lestrade? Never took you for the submissive type." His mouth threw out before his shaken brain could stop it, and he grimaced at the grin his brother shot him. Mrs. Hudson tutted from the kitchen, but she was smiling, and Lestrade was redder then a bus. Molly giggled from the kitchen where she had been helping , and patted Lestrade's arm.

"You caught a Holmes, you should be proud." Molly smiled, kissing the DI's cheek and sipping her third glass of wine. Lestrade turned so red Sherlock was considering calling 999, and Molly tipped the rest of the wine into her mouth. The group fell into not-so-easy conversation, Molly giggling like the mad hatter, Sherlock insulting every move his brother made, and Lestrade remaining fire hydrant red as he held Mycrofts hand. Mrs. Hudson kept going on and on about how happy she was to see everyone, and Mycroft glanced worriedly at Sherlock.

The night lumbered on, Sherlock played 'I'll be home For Christmas' while staring out the window. He played the notes long and sad, sending heartbreaking music through the flat. If anyone saw the tears on his cheeks they didn't say a word. Everyone listened to the music as it slowly danced into their hearing, all of them staring with aching depression at John's chair. When the last note was drawn out, shivering through the silence until it couldn't possibly keep going, everyone was in tears- except Mycroft, he just looked horribly guilty. Dropping the violin from his his hands and onto the crouch, Sherlock crouched beside the tree and pulled a small box from the back and set it gently on John's chair. He turned away, staring out the window, and everyone in the room resolutely ignored the strangled, sobbing noises he made. They all looked at the gift, sitting silently on the dusty chair. It was perfectly wrapped in shiny green paper that reflected the Christmas light wrapped around the tree, a scarlet red ribbon made a rose like bow on the upper left corner.

To anyone else it looked like a box, a simple, plain box. To Sherlock it was an 'I love you' sent to the heavens, a final admission to the wind of London, to London herself. Inside that wrapping was a handwritten book. Bound in black leather, golden cursive on the cover reading '**_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson_****.'** The pages reading Sherlock's every thought since the moment he met John, recounting their cases and how John had helped without knowing it. Every few pages there was a list of deductions, the 'morning deductions' that Sherlock had made about John everyday. John never knew about them, but on his floor in the mind palace was a room where the daily deductions were listed in the air under each date. Since their first hello at Barts to that phone call, everyone was listed. The final page of the book read simply '_It took loosing you to discover I loved you.' _

Nothing about that gift was Sherlockian. If you asked anyone Sherlock knew in his entire life all of them would tell you that there was no way in Heaven or Hell he wrote that, that he felt so much for one man. No one would ever think Sherlock Holmes could possibly love someone so truly, so madly, so deeply, but he did. He always will, and that journal was his proof of it. His proof to anyone else, and his proof to himself.

Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson, and without him nothing really mattered. John was gone, so Sherlock was leaving.


	9. Chapter 9

**Quick note:**_ Alright my amazing readers, hear this now! __**Important:**__ John's date of 'death' is July 7th, which is the date of Arthur Conan Doyle's death, I thought it fitting. I know it doesn't line up with Sherlocks little stunt, but eh, this is an AU after all._

_I am sorry for making so many of you cry, also. That was totally unintentional. _

_REVIEWS FAVS FOLLOWS are loved, respected, and cherished, even if I'm a dink and never say so._

_And onward my minions! :)_

* * *

New Years eve in New York City was in a word insanity. It was also deafening, comical, and caused the crime rate to spike. John didn't know any of this, and probably never would have thought he'd learn it from a first person point of view, but now he was standing in Time Square. The concrete of the road was specked with snow and ice, and the pavement-No, sidewalk because this is America- was littered with the people slowly bleeding into the traffic free road as ten approached. John was pushed from person to person, some apologizing, some yelling, and some growling (Literally, like feral cats) as he made his way down the stretch. His goal? Christian King, 42, Caucasian, male, 190 centimeters and very skilled with a lead pipe, his signature murder weapon.

Mr. King had gone into hiding after catching word of 'The Ghost', which was the nickname so kindly given to John, had set his sites on the drug smuggler gone assassin. Christian, or Lead-Head if you please, was one of the most infamous drug smugglers and dealers in New York when Moriarty cornered him with an offer he couldn't refuse: Join me or have your liver slowly extracted by my friend. He started as a low level drug dealer in the web at 30, but now-12 years later- he was a skilled assassin, feared by the underworld of the U.S. of A.

Almost as feared as The Ghost.

John knew he'd be here, the informant, John Ferrier, had told him. Well told Anthea, or whatever her name is, who told Mycroft who told an IT named Billy, who told John. So he made his way through the near drunks, the excited children, the annoyed tourists, and the homicidal locals, attempting to get to some alleyway by 11, where some hand off was happening. John was to make his move at 11:15, and the team would be there in minutes. They needed proof of whatever the hell was being passed between the two criminals.

Honestly, John couldn't care less. He was so tired of picking away at the larger portions of the web, while Mycrofts lesser parties picked their way through Poland, Rome, Norway, Canada, and some obscure country by India. John had taken his little leap 7 and a half months ago, and now he was immensely confused on the reason he was still fighting with drug dealers, assassins, robbers, and on that strange incident in Japan, an Anime cos-player who also happened to be an art thief. Mycroft had people for this. Clever people, young people, technically-alive people! John would have to ask him after this was done.

Providing his head didn't get overly acquainted with a lead pipe.

The blonde turned a corner, stepping over a muddy grey puddle, and the cheers of New York feel into a dull gibberish through the brick walls on either side of him. The lamp on the other end of the dank ally flicked eerily, and John took a deep breath through his nose and quickly regretted it. The entire ally way seemed to ooze the smell of vegetable oil. He muffled a cough in his thick jacket, and switched to army stalking mode. His training in silence and stealth kicking in like second nature, guided by a sharp twinge in his left shoulder. The pain had been nearly ignore-able with the illegal looking pain killers Mycroft had supplied, accompanied by a constant thrum of adrenalin, but now of all times the old shot wound decided to make it's come back. John sneered at the pain, biting the inside of his lower lip as he pulled the heavy weight of his gun from his waist band. The weapon balanced him well enough, brought him back from the floating abyss of thoughts that circled when one was shut away in silence.

Crouching behind a dumpster, his knees aching a reminder of his age, John waited. It seemed like at least 3 days passed- which his watch insisted was only 2 minutes, bloody thing- before a figure approached. The man was young, lean, and jumpy. His auburn hair stuck out in every available angle, and his hazel eyes jumped over the slushy snow at his feet, then back to the darkness of the strangely empty street. Nearly everyone was waiting for the ball to drop, or at home cursing civilization, so the streets far enough away from the square were dull and blank.

A minute passed before King meandered up the the younger man, dragging a thick pipe over the pavement behind him. It jumped and tinged with every bump it hit, sending shrill, horrifying notes into the air as he smiled innocently at the other man. A vague description of this mans massive size did not prepare John at all. Christian King was a giant! At least 200 pounds, and was a head-at least- taller then John. His hands were worn, and scarred from swinging a lead pipe, and they looked demonic. His eyes were a startling blue, like lightening in a storm: sharp, concentrated, **deadly. **His hair was crew cut, and appeared white in the fleetingly light of the lamps. All together, this man had even Captain Watson shaking in his boots.

"Josh Robinson?" King boomed into the night, cocking a white eyebrow at the frightened man before him. Apparently-Josh nodded jerkily, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. Both men's breath curled from chapped lips, fading into the falling New Years snow. _11:07 now_. "You have a job for me."

"Aye sir." Robinson mumbled, shifting on his feet. "I was sent by Monica Roland. She...she has someone she needs...eliminated. As soon as possible."

"That is why people call me, boy." King growled, swinging the pipe over his shoulder and shifting his weight. A blatant message, and threat: Hurry up before I kill you.

"Right, yeah, I knew that." Josh shifted again, laughing awkwardly and receiving a blood freezing glare. "His name his David Avery. He's 37, 5'8", around 150 pounds, and skilled in defensive arts and stuff. He's an awesome boxer."

"Picture?" _11:10_

"Right yeah, here ya' go." Josh handed over a blurry photo of a man, round face, worried eyes, smile lines far more prominent than frown lines, and black hair with grey at the temples.

_11:11. Make a wish._

John's eyes were watering from the rotten food smell wafting off the dumpster he stood beside, he could feel the snow slithering into his boots, and falling under the collar of his jacket and melting down his sweating back like sharp lines. He could feel every shift in the wind, his senses on high, and his legs shaking from the position he held. He was beginning to wonder if he could really take these men if his legs gave out.

"Does he frequent any joints 'round here or do I hafta go outta town?"

"A bar called 'That Old Haunt'."

"Time?"

"He gets there 'bout 9 and leaves at ungodly hours every weekend." Josh said, looking anywhere but the deadly man infront of him.

_11:14. Fuck, fuckity, fucking hell. _

"I'll take it. Tell Ms. Roland it'll be done by the game on Sunday."

"Right yup...Great, awesome. I'm going to go...now..." Josh said, taking a step backwards, his body stiffening to prepare to run.

_11:15, any God anyone has ever believed in help me._

John swung the largest bag of trash he could lift and flung it towards Josh, jumping around and sending a strange piece of wood he'd found into King's knee. Robinson shouted in surprise, falling back under the garbage and cursing all that lived for getting torpedo with trash. King hissed, swinging his pipe toward the spot where John had stood moments before to deliver his blow, and it connected with John's left calf, causing the blonde to cry out. King grinned horribly and brought the pipe back up, aiming for John's head. John kicked out his left leg, and it connected with the injured knee and King crumpled unceremoniously to the floor.

John was up in seconds, and turned around, pistol whipping King just as Josh got to his feet. The scrawny young man stared at John with wide eyes, hazel gems flicking from the gun to the wielder, and back. His already pale face went even paler, and his eyes blew wider before they rolled back into his head as his body fell to the ground.

"Fainting? Really?" John asked the unconscious form, shaking his head.

"Who...the...great f-fuck ar-re...you?" Coughed King from the ground, groping for his pipe as John turned back to him. He'd landed on the corner of the brick wall, and then fallen into a greasy puddle when John had sent him backwards. His white hair was now stained and dripping with wintery slush, tainted with oil and gas and New York, and his face had a sharp gash in it from John's gun.

"No one, really." John said, leveling the pistol with the other mans head. "I'm dead, in all technicalities." John brought the butt of the gun down hard onto the other man, knocking him out cold. He then bound both culprits with zip ties and waited for the ever punctual **Mycroft Troupe. **

* * *

Sherlock slept, yes, but he didn't dream. He had before, before John's fall, and even before John, but now? Now he worked himself until exhaustion caused him to quite literally drop, and the sleep induced by this unhealthy habit lead to a dreamless unconsciousness. Today was different, though he had no way of knowing this. It started normally. Around 9 he played his violin, cutting some notes off quickly, and dropping a few low and sorrowful until Mrs. Hudson puttered upstairs with a cup of near perfect tea.

Perfect tea was only ever made by John.

He'd even gotten a case, relatively boring, but everything was now, wasn't it? Lestrade still insisted on picking him up, so they rode in silence as Sherlock cursed Lestrade in every language he knew, and some he didn't but knew just sounded correct.

The case was short lived, a woman stabbed in the neck with an unknown object later discovered to have been a broken broom. Left handed Sherlock noticed immediately, and rather bitter at the right hand set world.

"She was an alcoholic, clean for 2 years but relapsed shortly before the murder." Sherlock's thoughts stopped being focused on the case and took a sharp U-turn. It went something like this: Alcoholic, relapse, Harry. Harry and Clara having baby. John would be thrilled, and worried. John. John would have made a face because of this victim, sentiment. John.

Sherlock was so caught up in his thoughts of John he nearly missed Lestrade's typical question of "How the hell did you figure that one out, then?" But he never missed anything, or almost never. He had missed his best friends not-so-platonic feelings for him, and that same mans suicidal tendencies.

"Obvious." Sherlock waved a hand at the pictures on the wall, specifically that of the victim and a few others with a pendant hanging from it. "Her two year token over there, shining still. Either well kept or new. Look around, nothing in this flat is dusted, would she pay attention to such a trinket? No, so it's new. Her other tokens are spilled across the table, tossed, possibly in anger. At herself? Most likely, judging from the smell of alcohol on her mouth and body."

"Great. How does this help with the murder solving business?"

"I'm getting to it, shut up." Sherlock said, stepping around the flat. His intelligent gaze landed on a photo: Two girls, same age, same height, features matching in near perfect symmetry. Twins, one is the victim. "Her sister, or more precisely her sister's husband."

"It was probably her girlfriend." Anderson said from the door way, ignoring Sherlock. Sally smiled like a dazed maiden at him. "They had a fight, the neighbors said they could hear it in their flat."

"Oh, that's absurd." Sherlock spat, shifting his eyes to the wedding photo of the victims twin sister. She was tipsy already, that was obvious, and had a wine glass raised to the photographer. The husband was glaring at her, and the sister was smiling and ignoring it. The husband found the drinking more distasteful then his wife, and if the victim had relapsed he would surely have been upset. His wife? Heartbroken, just like John had been when he'd gotten that call months ago after Harry had been sober for three months. It was a club telling him to come get her. His entire face had fallen, and he'd looked betrayed, hurt-

_No!_ There was a case right in front of him, Sherlock had to concentrate.

"The sister's husband, what's his alibi?" Sherlock continued, and Lestrade flipped open his notebook and read painfully slow.

"At the pub with his friends, they can somewhat collaborate but nothing's verified completely."

"He hadn't planned on killing her. He'd been at the pub and seen her drinking, got angry, followed her home. They probably argued, and then...Ah! Yes!" Sherlock practically danced over to the broom cupboard and pulled it open to reveal and broom, broken in two, one end covered in blood. "He saw her broken broom, picked up one end and-" Sherlock picked up said weapon in his leather clad hands and made a stabbing motion into the air. "Then he panicked, pulling the handle out and throwing the broom in the cupboard. He ran, not home, he's just killed someone. No, no he'd go somewhere those unrealistic show always say their suspects are. Somewhere secretive, somewhere that doesn't ask questions. He'll most likely be trying to flee the country."

"Right, but where is he?" Lestrade said, ignoring Anderson's protests.

"Cheap hotel." With that, Sherlock was gone. Out of the apartment complex and hailing a cab, soon enough he waltzed back into Baker Street. He may have looked pleased to someone else, but inside he was being torn in two. John would have muttered brilliant, John would have hated the alcoholism played a part in this woman's demise. John would have glared at Anderson, he would have stood beside Lestrade and stooped beside the body to announce obvious deductions about her death. He would have asked for more of Sherlock's deductions, he would have been John.

Sherlock was quite certain that if he could force his heart to stop beating, he would have done it. Probably right there, on the pavement beside John. He would have stared into the dreary July sky with lifeless eyes beside his only friend, his conductor of light, the one he loved. It would have been some absurd, modern Romeo and Juliet-or Romeo and Mercutio as it were.

Sherlock laid on the couch with the pretense of thinking, and that's what he had planned to do. He hadn't planned to fall asleep, and he certainly wouldn't have if his body hadn't taken the chance and ceased it. Betrayed by his transport yet again.

_Sherlock was in the lab at Bart's, but it was also the morgue. Molly was walking around silently behind him, cutting open the body of some old man. She gave him a sad smile, tears streamed down her face and her eyes-Her eyes! They were John's. Perfect, solid blue, dark enough to appear brown in certain light. Soft and kind like a stream, but the life was fading from her eyes-his eyes? Slowly, oh so slowly her face grew pale and went slack, the eyes sinking into her head and growing dead. She collapsed on the floor, blood flowing from her head, her limbs mangled like she'd fallen. _

_Suddenly the lab door swung open and John walked in. He had his cane, and looked at Molly with a strange expression. Regret? He bent down, pushing his fingers to her neck to find her pulse and looked back at Sherlock, shaking his head 'no'. He stepped over the body and held his phone out to Sherlock, who took it without thinking. On the screen was the last call, to speed dial number 1, Sherlock Holmes. Call 2 minutes 17 seconds. Sherlock's eyes flew back up to John, who pursed his lips at the phone and shook his head. John started to hobble out of the morgue, and Sherlock threw his hand out trying to stop him. To hold him there, to keep him from leaving...again._

_The floor opened up and John's cane fell into oblivion. Suddenly the room was spinning away, and Sherlock was on the street, holding John's phone. Above him, on the roof of Bart's, stood the small figure of John Watson. Suddenly John spread his arms wide, making himself into a crucifix, which was wrong. John hadn't jumped like that, it wasn't right! He looked at Sherlock one last time, and the tipped his weight forward and started barreling towards the ground. His limbs flailed out sharply, but he didn't scream. No John laughed. He laughed until his body slapped into the concrete, cutting the sound off abruptly_.

Sherlock rolled off the couch when he jerked awake, his body shaking so violently he couldn't push onto his hands and knees. His button up shirt was drenched through, and his breath was short and ragged.

A nightmare, no that wasn't even a little accurate. That was more like a mental torture, a deep knife cutting through his sleep, bringing forth the oddest, horrifying dream he'd ever had. Molly? What had Molly had to do with anything? And the way John jumped! Wrong, all of it. Sherlock's breath was evening slowly, but his shaking was still violent. Thank God Mrs. Hudson was out, or this would be difficult to explain away.

All rational thought had left Sherlock, and he stumbled into his bedroom, groping for new clothes. He pulled on a night shirt, pajama bottoms, and his sky blue dressing gown, and the heard a jingle from his pocket. He dropped his hand down and found it wrapped around a beaded chain, with two tags at the end. John's dog tags, he'd taken them off one day, he couldn't remember why, and left them in the dressing gown. Now he dropped them over his sweat damp curls, hands still convulsing ever so slightly, and took a deep breath. The rested against his cold chest, the barrier of his cotton shirt protecting them from his sweat. They weren't John, but they still grounded him in the present just like they had on the day of the funeral.

For now, he had the dog tags, the air of London, and a date with Lorazipam in a few weeks.

* * *

"Why am I here?" John groaned into the phone, pacing the length of the hotel room he was in.

"New York? Because Moriarty had a strong hold in America, and New York happened to be one of it's bases." Mycroft replied nonchalantly, and John was quiet certain he was soon going to discover the ability to kill via cell phone call.

"No, I mean why am I doing this?" John practically shouted. "You've got better, smarter, more agile people I'm sure!"

"But non more motivated." Then there was silence from John, because well, yes that was true. Bloody Mycroft! "John, you are nearly done."

"With your current plans, but Lord knows you change them so frequently I can hardly count on it." John said into the phone, sounding deafeningly petulant, which annoyed him even more.

"Your plane to France leaves in the morning, due be punctual John." Mycroft said after a moment of silence, waving away the topic. "Good night." Then silence.

"I want to..just..._Arrrgh_." John huffed at the phone, throwing his hands up and tossing the thing onto the bed. "I...have a hair appointment." John sighed, looking at his watch. "Dying my hair black, _brilliant_." He said bitterly to the room.

* * *

The next few days passed with little to do, so Sherlock lit the flat on fire. Twice. Then it was Wednesday, and he went to John's grave. He didn't have much to say, he told John's grave-bench the story of his latest case. He left out the nightmare that proceeded it. When Sherlock got home that night he decided to lay in the middle of the main room to wait for his experiment to finish it's standing period.

He was thinking, his brain working over time so he thought he couldn't possibly fall asleep. He was wrong yet again.

_The lab again, but this time Molly wasn't in the room. Only __John__. John, who was reading a magazine while they waited for Sherlock's results on...something. Sherlock turned back to his microscope. There was a noise from John, a phone ringing, and then the sound of a chair scrapping across linoleum._

_"Good bye Sherlock." John said as he opened the door to the hallway. Sherlock looked up from his microscope, expecting to see John walking out of the morgue and into the hallway. Instead he was met with the view of John, outlined by London's skyline, back to him, and one foot dangling into the nothing out the door. Sherlock opened his mouth to shout, scream, yell-anything to make John stop._

_All that came out was "Good bye John."_

_He meant wait, he meant stay, he meant 'I love you.' But that's not what he said, and that's not what John heard. Sherlock stood from the chair, staring in shock as the London air ruffled John's graying blonde hair. His shirt shifted in the breeze, and he was staring out of the door, into the sky. Sherlock wanted to walk forward, to stop him, to do something! All he could do was watch as John took a deep breath, mumbled another apology, and pushed out the door with the foot still planted on the ground. Now Sherlock burst forward, but he was to slow and all he saw was john plummet to the ground. Behind him there was a snicker._

_"You really did love him!" Moriarty giggled from the lab. "How adorable...It makes me sick!"_

_"What do you want?"_

_"To watch." Moriarty sighed in disappointment as he glanced over Sherlock's shoulder. "I told you I'd burn the heart out of you, but it looks like it took itself away before I could."_

_"Go away."_

_"You."_

Sherlock woke up to his body shaking again, the sweat drenching his clothes again, but the sick churn of his stomach was new. Sherlock rolled to his side, balancing on one elbow as he vomited onto the carpet. His shaking grew, and his sweats became cold and then he was shivering. His head spun, his stomach ached, and his eyes were tearing. This was horribly wrong, everything was out of control. He needed control.

Sherlock's eyes were silver, red rimmed, and wide when they landed on the silhouette of three pill bottles beneath his couch. Beside them lay the outline of a large vodka bottle, and Sherlock began to heave himself into a sitting position, keeping his gaze perfectly on the things that ensured the demise he'd created for himself.

Maybe his date with Lorazipam would just have to be moved up.


	10. Chapter 10

**Quick Note: **_Prepare for a bit of an emotional rush! Also, recall I'm American and Brit picking is welcome! Last thing, my Bones fic 'A Family Lost' has not been forgotten, just hit a road block! Don't worry, if any of you read that one._

_On ward readers! Oh, and Guest, you totally can laugh at parts of this, that's what the frying pan was for! Comment are loved, btw! Thanks for reading!_

"Wednesday isn't it, dear?"Mrs. Hudson asked as she puttered around the kitchen, trying to concoct some sort of thing resembling food for her last tenant. Said tenant was staring out the window, analyzing the skyline of London like it held every answer he ever needed, swinging his violin at his side. Sherlock made a noise of agreement, not moving an inch of his body. "Aren't you going?"

"5." He replied, tapping the bow of his violin against his leg. "I'll be going at 5."

"Then you have to eat, now." She hummed, carrying the plate of sandwiches out of the kitchen. "You are far, far too skinny! Have you even eaten this week?" Sherlock shook his head slowly, his eyes still locked on the grey clouds of winter. The older woman heaved a sigh, setting the plate on the table and wrinkling her nose at the skull staring back at her when she sat on the couch. Giving another heavy sigh, she pushed the skull to the far corner of the table with the plate, shaking her head. "What was that you were just playing deary? It was very nice."

"It's a composition of mine, actually." Sherlock answered absently, resting his forehead against the winter bitten glass of the window. "Entitled 'He is the wind.'"

"That's very mystical." She said, setting down the two cups of tea she'd brought up with her, both now being nearly the perfect temperature. "Could you play it for me?" The question finally brought Sherlock back from his mind, but he didn't have to think about his answer. To anyone else it would've been no, but not her. Never her. Mrs. Hudson is the only person-except for John- Sherlock is willing to admit he loves. She may appear to be just a landlady, but honestly she filled something in his life he'd always missed. He wasn't sure what, but he was sure he owed her for it. No one needed to know any of this though, anyone could assume that much.

"Of course." That was his answer, because Mrs. Hudson was his only exception now. The only person he was worried would take his death badly, others will miss him. Lestrade, Molly, even...Mycroft, but Mrs. Hudson will be genuinely effected. Both her boys being taken will certainly effect her, but she is a wise woman, and she will understand. She will understand the Sherlock just couldn't go on anymore, without him. She's known Sherlock loved the short ex-army doctor since the first day, and that's why Sherlock's...departure will not come as a shock.

In all honesty, Sherlock thought Mrs. Hudson was the only one who suspected his 'healing' after John's death was all just an act. He'd decided after the nightmare debacle that he couldn't risk people knowing that he was crumbling inside, so he made a decision:To make sure everyone stopped worrying over him he would act like he'd finally accepted John's death, and was moving forward. So Sherlock yelled, and deducted people's personal lives when he was bored; he accused Anderson of being the most idiotic person in London, and posted on his website. He acted the way he assumed people would perceive as normal, at least for him, and everyone was fooled, everyone but Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock rose his bow, testing the instrument he held before diving into the melody. The first notes were slow, and rattled the air with their thick sounds, but they soon faded into frantic few measures. He twisted with the music, letting the shifting notes wash through the silent flat, his eyes on John's chair. The chair sat idle as he played a string of quick, hard notes, the book wrapped in green still sat in the seat beside the union jack pillow. The next notes started low, but rose in tempo on sound until the last barely even made a noise. Flitting over the next few measures, he barely flirted with the high notes and drug the low ones out in a soul crushing musical calamity that sent waves of noise throughout the entire building. His arm was aching as he neared the end, and the violin even sounded a bit tired as he played a quick, violent set that abruptly changed into one long, low note that perfectly matched the first. When he let the instrument drop his eyes fell to Mrs. Hudson, who was shamelessly crying and clapping slowly at the miniature concert.

"Beautiful, Sherlock. Really, he would have loved it." Mrs. Hudson's voice was cracked, sore from the silent tears. Sherlock just nodded curtly before sitting next to her and poking at his sandwich. "Now, you eat that!" The older woman nodded, brushing her tears away and picking up her cup. Sherlock just sighed deeply and picked up the sandwich. They continued the meal, Mrs. Hudson having to remind Sherlock to continue eating every few minutes, and eventually the kind woman left the genius alone. Now that Sherlock was alone he let his well put on act fall away, and his face dropped into a tired depression that has become normal for him. His shoulder slumped, and he collapsed onto the couch and into his mind palace.

It was a sad sight now, still organized and genius that was true but every aspect was haunted by a too-high giggle, a calm tenor voice, a fleeting image of an ugly jumped, blonde hair glinting in alley light as a man ran beside him. A ghost of a doctor would jump through the rooms, leading him into disorganized areas he hadn't ventured since his drug taking days. John's voice would lead him into memories he didn't even know he'd saved, simple times of domestic life with his best friend. A feeling of John's presence turned him around into imagined scenarios of John's return, of holding the shorter man, of admitting his love and having it returned. This ghost would take him around and around, leaving him confused and battered as he sat alone, trying to reason through a life time of ignored emotions. Everything he'd ignored, every feeling, desire, sadness barreled into him when John hit the pavement.

Every single feeling normal people experienced daily, throughout their lives was pressing in on him. The every day emotions people went through, that Sherlock had pushed away and ignored, all those little things he'd never allowed himself to experience in his life was a hurricane through his system. Some days it got so bad, he missed John so much, he became physically ill. His fingers would go cold, and his arms would tingle, his head would pound slowly until finally he threw up. His knees hitting whatever hard service was below him and his torso lurching forward as he expelled the little he ate. The world would spin and his body would shake and the only words he could manage were: "John why?" Before he fell over and had to bite his lip until it bled so he didn't have to cry.

No one ever saw these break downs, no one knew the extent of Sherlock's hysteria. He'd run off crime scenes, or disappear into alley ways went he felt the first rush hit him. No one could see this weakness, he had to pretend to be better. He needed them to see him as he used to be, so no one could stop him. Sherlock couldn't be stopped now, he couldn't survive this pain much longer. Emotional havoc so great it actually caused physical illness? That is the true meaning of 'dying of heartbreak'. No one really died of the pain, it just shook their every cell, destroyed their every thought and movement, coursed through their entire body until they decided they couldn't do it anymore. Heartbreak never killed anyone, it just cause enough pain they killed themselves. Sherlock almost laughed as the image of Jefferson Hope, the cabby from John and he's first case, bloomed in his forsaken mind.

Heartbreak: The world's most infamous serial killer. Untouchable, incurable.

John muttered under his breath as he unlocked the door to the overly priced hotel room he was placed in. Running a hand through his too-long ebony hair he flicked the light's on a began to catalog the extent of this room. His home for three weeks, give or take. The bed was in the center of the far side of the room, divided from the area by the door by a wall that took up half the room. It was large, and plush, and kind of looked like it wanted to swallow John whole. The windows were on the other side of the bed, dark blue curtains covered them and cast the room in an oceanic glow. A desk sat against the half wall, a phone and note pad on top of that. There was a television at the foot of the bed, and a closet on the wall across from it. The room was grey, beige, and varying shades of blue and John was certain it screamed over priced. The bed kind of frightened John, so he instead sat on the subtly flower printed powder blue couch and began fiddling with his new phone. He was to meet his new team today, and the only way to actually discover their whereabouts was to call the only contact of his two that he actually used. That was something he didn't want to do, but we all have to make sacrifices for the greater good, don't we? So John pushed a few buttons, ended up accidentally downloading 'Flappy Bird', cursed Apple and finally found the contact he wanted: 'Black.'

"Hello doctor." Mycroft answered distractedly, the sound of furious typing acting as dramatic background music to him. "Are you settling into Lyon nicely then?"

"Yeah, it's just peachy." John huffed, leaning heavily against the overly cushy back of the couch. The decorator of this hotel must have had a strange kink for furniture that wanted to swallow you. "So where are they?"

"So impatient." Mycroft tutted. "First we have a few matters to discuss. I was spending a bit of time with Gregory-Ahem, excuse me- Lestrade and it appears the worldly authorities are taking an interest in an infamous assassin known as 'The Ghost'." John's entire body froze, his throat seizing up at the chilly tone Mycroft adopted towards the end of the sentence. The government official sounding particularly murderous. "Now, John, I thought we agreed that your...shall we call them dealings?- with Moriarty's underlings weren't going to attract attention."

"It's not my fault-"

"If the extremely capable minds of Gre-Lestrade's team actually begin to look into this what will we do?" Mycroft cut him off, his voice growing into a winter cold as he continued bitterly. "Other countries are growing interested, there's mention of actually putting together an investigative team to look into the feared figure."

"Excuse me sir. But I have extraordinarily high confidence in this little scheme you concocted! Now, I do apologize if I'm offending your boyfriend's honor by saying this, but I doubt even Scotland Yard's finest won't be able to untangle the fanatical the twist of lies you elegantly put together!" John shouted into the receiver, his anger growing at irrational speed. Honestly! How could Mycroft be upset with him?! He was simply following the stupid orders the waist coat loving, umbrella wielding man had given him. If he didn't want John to be discovered he should've come up with a better plan!

"And what about Sherlock?" That sentence hung in the air for a moment, causing John's anger to go out in a mere second. "Perhaps the worlds legal system wouldn't be able to figure out my plans, but I know that Sherlock could. He may be the only man alive that could disentangle my entire plot, and it would only take him a few weeks. Puzzles are his specialty, after all."

"He won't." John croaked, still trying to remember how oxygen worked. Maybe he should look up directions on his fancy new smart phone. "I won't let him." John said finally, sucking in a breath. Ah, that's how you do it.

"If you are sure, Doctor." Mycroft hissed, but he sounded less tense. John grunted something into the phone and then the dial tone filled his brain. The blonde stood in frozen silence, listening to the clicking of a clock set on his desk, until the anger burning through his veins dissipated. Slowly he pulled the phone from his ear, closing the call and reopening his contacts. He needn't search, only having two contacts, he quickly flicked open the one he never used: 'White'. Unlike 'Black', this contact didn't have 17 different contact options, 20 missed calls, and 700 text messages. 'White' had one phone number and a photograph, an image that was grainy and just a mashed shade of grays that hardly could call itself a picture, but the subject was undeniably Sherlock Holmes. Pix-elated, grey, and fuzzy but no doubt the mad genius John called his best friend.

After staring at the oh so tempting number John remembered Mycroft never gave him the meeting place to find his new team. "Damn you Holmes!" John shouted into the empty room, viciously punching out a text message alone the lines of: _'Adres for tream niw Mycrow!-W.'_ And sent the slightly hysteric message off without correcting the mistakes, silently giggling to himself with the accidentally new found nickname for the British Government. Mycrow.

_'Please do learn a bit of English, doctor. - M.H'_

_'20 Place des Terreaux, 69001 Lyon, France - M.H'_

John copied the address after many failed attempts, and put into the search box of his 'safari' app. He blinked at the results, heaving a sigh.

_'Museum of Fine Arts of Lyon, Mycroft? Really? - W.'_

_'Yes, Room 1: Life after Death.- M.H'_

_'You are in love with cruel jokes - W.'_

_'The team is waiting, doctor- M.H'_

_'Bugger off- W.'_

_{Message Deleted}_

John closed the messaging, after deleting the one he sent with Mycroft's name in it, and pulled on his strange light-greyish beige trench coat. It reached his mid calf, and when he pulled up the collar he felt like an undercover agent. The buttons trailed down the front all the way to his waist, and it had two large pockets. He dropped the overly expensive smart phone into the left pocket, and a pen-knife and his fake ID's in the right. He may look horribly suspicious in this great coat, but the identification Mycroft had given him could probably get him into the British Embassy's most secret filing rooms without question. After stuffing the room key into his jean pocket, and snatching up one of his many wallet's he began his journey to 'Room 1: Life after Death.'

Sherlock was staring at the tea kettle, he wasn't completely sure why but he was. He had been for at least an hour now, maybe more but definitely not less. At first he'd stopped to inspect the small metal frame, noting the scratches he could see and the looseness of the handle. After a while he'd began to inspect the way the dust contorted his reflection even greater then the surface of the object it's self. Now he was simply staring, with no actual reason to be, and had no inclination to stop anytime soon. The younger Holmes was beginning to question his sanity when the elder entered, Lestrade at his side. Sherlock could tell by the foot falls that they were walking side by side, neither ever following the other. Equals, in every aspect it seemed.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice, which wasn't odd. The DI always let his partner speak first, a habit the older man had from his 'minor role in the government'. Sherlock couldn't make his mouth open, though he tried, he desperately wanted to sneer at his brother, throw out a comment about his diet. He simply couldn't make his jaw function, or move his eyes from the dirty surface of the kettle. Instead he waved a hand at his brother, something a kin to a greeting.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Lestrade this time, funny how they always spoke one after the other like a circus act. Sherlock wanted to tell them he had no idea, that he didn't know how long he'd been doing it or why, and that he couldn't stop; but again his mouth stayed glued shut, and his eyes remained tied to the object in front of him. All he could manage was a slow shrug, to slow it seemed from the sound of worry Lestrade made. "You alright, mate?"

"What about that dirty tea kettle has enthralled you so, brother?" Mycroft chirped, and Sherlock could hear his too expensive shoes squeak over the old floor boards. Recently polished, the consultant noted as his brother peered beside him at the kettle that held his interest against his will. "It's not an experiment, and from the draw of your brow I can see you haven't the faintest why you are staring at it." Sherlock wanted to growl at his older brother, say something cutting and horribly insensitive but his mouth stayed shut. He could move his gaze from the dusty thing before him, and his mouth wouldn't respond and it may be one of the strangest things ever to happen to him.

"Why isn't he talking, Myc?"

"I don't think he can, Gregory." Mycroft sounded horribly perplexed, scrunching his brow as he drug his intelligent gaze over his younger brother. Something any average human may call worry shadowed over the older mans face as he took in his younger brothers hunched posture, rapid weight loss, lack of sleep, and inability to move as of current. "How peculiar."

"Poke him." Lestrade said, earning him the most confused look from his partner. The rapid turn of the umbrella wielding man's head, and the look of utter distaste on his face made the DI crack a huge grin and snicker just slightly. "Well, have you a better idea dear?"

_"Dear?!" _Mycroft's look of bewilderment increased tenfold as he stared at the other man with wide eyes, and Greg couldn't help but laugh. "_Poke_ him? What is going on in your mind, Gregory?"

"Absolutely nothing." Sherlock managed in a hoarse voice, cracked from silence. He hadn't spoken for three days, since Mrs. Hudson went to visit her sister Wednesday. Lestrade stopped laughing, but snorted something like mock-irritation, he'd grown used to the consulting detectives jabs.

"I see we're speaking again." Lestrade said, and Sherlock heard the noise of fabric moving, the man most likely crossing his arms. Still the youngest of the trio couldn't remove his eyes from the tea kettle. "Why are you staring at the kettle?"

"I...have no idea." Sherlock replied with a sigh, studying the areas where the dust was thicker then others. He could count out exactly the number of days since the pots last use, on July 7th: 217.67 days to be exact. The dulled color of it hidden under months of dust claimed all of Sherlock's thoughts. Every word he managed had to be beaten from his lungs by a mental attack of fierce quality.

"Gregory and I have come to invite you to...dinner." Mycroft seemed extraordinarily pained to be offering this to his younger brother, but every action the older man did seemed to be dictated by an illogical guilt. He'd even done a bit of work, at his desk mind you, to find Sherlock an interesting few cases, and now dinner?

"Have you done something horrible to me I'm yet to discover Mycroft?" Sherlock quipped, forcing his eyes to his brother quickly before returning them to the kettle. "Or are you acting peculiar for other reasons?"

"I am not acting in any way but normal, dearest brother." Mycroft said tightly, turning away from the distracted younger man and walking back to his partner. "Shall we wait any longer Gregory?"

"C'mon, Sherlock. You look sickly, let us get some food into you?" Lestrade was practically begging, and Sherlock scoffed at him before straightening his back and finally, finally, turning to see the other man. Gregory sported his usual attire, nothing spectacular except...except for the ring on his left hand. Mycroft did not sport the same band, so Sherlock hadn't missed the wedding. Engaged than. Now the genius's eyes were attached to this new piece of metal, before flickering to his brother and then to Lestrade in confusion.

"_W-when?"_ He choked out, still utterly flabbergasted he hadn't deduced it earlier. He had been to enthralled in a bloody tea kettle, of all things!

"2 weeks ago." Lestrade answered proudly, but his cheeks tinted pink with giddy shyness. How disgustingly romantic. The DI twisted the golden band over his finger, real gold no doubt, knowing Mycroft, and grinned looking at his partner under his lashes. Mycroft had the decency to flush a bit in his ears, and return an attempt at a smile, the best his unpracticed face could manage.

"Congratulations." Sherlocks voice dripped sarcasm, but the two lovers knew better. He was happy for them, though to tied up in his own self loathing and black depression to acknowledge it. They were a good match in personality's, balancing each other out in an odd sort of way. Lestrade could be more intelligent, and Mycroft could be less of a prat but all in all they were good together. And even someone who wasn't a master of observation and deduction could see they were mad for each other.

"Dinner?" Mycroft continued, but his eyes held the silent thank you. His sibling gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement to the silent gratefulness, their coded, hidden ways of speaking going unnoticed by the third man in the room.

"I doubt I have a choice." Sherlock sighed, sending one last glance to the tea kettle, then brushing past the older men and grabbing his coat. "Hurry up." He scoffed, tying his scarf around his ivory neck. Lestrade shook his head, silently laughing as he took his fiance's hand and pulled him from the messy flat.

John's entire world pixelated, then tilted, finally swirling into a messy fuzz that danced in and out of darkness. A dull throb in his lower left thigh kept him from accepting the darkness, letting it cradle him in it's arms of nothingness. His head was bleeding, and his shoulder ached horrible. A bruise was fresh across his jaw, and his lip split. The only worry that struck the doctor was the repeated head injury, and the silence around him. The team would be here in ten minutes, but his leg was spilling out blood at blinding speeds, and he was nearing unconsciousness. He tried to recall what had happened, and his thoughts went something like this:

_Running, leg aching, shoulder hurts. Team 15 minutes away. Murder suspect: Carlos Vega, connected to Moriarty. Tackled Vega into ally, rolling, pain, someone hitting my head. World gone wonky, another blow to my face then the back of my head. Kicking to Vega's face, head butt, pain for both parties=bad idea. Punch to my face while I kick his groin. Lip bleeding. Sore, aching muscles. Hand hurts from deep cut, at least 5 centimeters in. Gun 2 meters away. Vega jumping, knife in hand. Sudden, blinding pain. Cold metal sinking through my skin, fat, muscle; blade twists, tearing skin away from bone, knife nicked bone? Dunno, do know this is very bad. Horrible, horrible pain, vision gone white. Vega retreating, frightening pain in leg. Doctor, get it together! No permanent damage to muscles, limp for a month or two when healed. If healed, could bleed out. Probably will bleed out-__**FUCK**__ that hurts! _

John was pressing his hand to the deep wound, trying to staunch the blood flow. He could hear a car engine, foot falls against wet pavement. The team was early, apparently luck was on his side because he couldn't keep himself up now. He slumped to the side, hands loosing pressure against the ghastly wound, his entire vision went fuzzy. John caught a glimpse of several figures filing into the ally, but some part of his brain was shouting at him:

_'Their too late, sorry Sherlock.'_ Until he finally lost all coherent thought, and probably gave an embarrassing cry as the darkness invited him in, accepting him completely.

Part of him worried he'd never come back out.

Sherlock jerked up right, nearly fall from the couch where'd he'd fallen asleep. The dream was fuzzy, but it was John. John dying in an ally, then in the center of their flat, then in the morgue at Bart's. Every few seconds the setting changed, but it was always John, clutching Sherlock's wrist with pain etched into his dark blue eyes. Blood was flowing from his old shoulder wound, and his face was sickly pale. He'd just keep saying "I'm sorry Sherlock."

And all Sherlock could ever manage to say in return was: "Goodbye John."


	11. Chapter 11

**Quick note: **_Yes, yes alright Mycroft is not supposed to be hated in this story. I like Mycroft, even in Doyle's books, I don't want him to be the bad guy so there you get his thoughts. Mary is more based on the Doyle books then the BBC show, because...I havem't seen season 3 yet. Sue me. Enjoy this, comment please! _

_**AND GUYS PLEASE: **__I love comments, I LOVE to know what you all think about the story. I want to know what you like, love, hate. What breaks your heart, what makes you cry, what makes you laugh. What you want me to eleaborate more on, what you want me to say less about. Do you want to see more about Sherlock at John's grave, or about John's missions? SPILL IT, I want to know. Please_

Nightmares! Everyday he slept, Sherlock woke up to horrible images burnt into his mind. All of them John, John hurt, John dying, John jumping. He couldn't do it anymore, he only slept on Friday nights now, and only under heavy dosage of sleeping pills and, on occasion, alcohol. Part of him didn't want to give up the nightmares, because without them he was numb. His mind was so over run by depression that every emotion, however small and almost nonexistent compared to other people's, that he'd always had weren't even making an impression. Sherlock felt nothing but loneliness now.

It wasn't like before John, no that was the usual alone, forgotten until someone needed him that had been his life. Then John hobbled into his life, knocking the clear world Sherlock saw into a beautiful stain glass pattern of acceptance. Someone who glared at his experiments with affection, tried to engage him in conversation, wanted to see him when he didn't need something.

It's no wonder Sherlock fell in love with him, after all he was the first person to ever want Sherlock for no reason. He just wanted the genius to be himself, and to warn him when there was severed body parts in the fridge. Irene may have loved Sherlock, and somewhere, somehow Sherlock may have felt something for her but she hadn't wanted Sherlock for Sherlock. She had wanted him for his cleverness, for his wit, and his cheekbones. She hadn't spent night's lying in bed, unable to sleep because of violin torturing. She hadn't made him tea and did tedious research on his command. Irene never tried to talk to him, without another motive or reason, just to talk. John did. John was his first friend, the man who took a brush and painted Sherlock's simple, obvious world in something he didn't understand. Something he adored, wanted, needed. John had stumbled into Sherlock's mind palace and the light hiding in the corners hit him, washing the entire structure in a beautiful, golden love. When Sherlock had told him he conducted light, he didn't just mean inspired ideas. He meant the man had literally found a way to bring a glow into the dark palace that held Sherlock's consciousness. Before it had been grey, plain, colorless, emotionless. With John it was full of shining whites, deep blacks, sweeping blue's, and startlingly reds. It was easier to think with John, and now that John was gone forever the colors had faded. They weren't gone, John's memory tied them there, but they weren't bright and amazing like before. Now it was pale yellows, dull greens, and pathetic pinks. Sherlock's thoughts were slower, Mycroft had noticed, and they'd never speed up again. His mind was numb and dull, and he hated it.

Almost time to end it.

Sherlock rolled over on the couch, dangling his arm off the side and one leg awkwardly up over the top and sighed. Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson had taken turns watching him and now it was Lestrade's day. Mycroft should be here in 2 minutes. They'd make him eat at least once every day, and after two weeks he'd put on enough weight to look somewhat healthy. The door opened down stairs, Mycroft had a key now, and there were elegant footsteps up the stairs. Early, strange. Sherlock turned his head to glare at Lestrade, who gave him a smirk as the oldest man stumbled into the room. Yes, stumbled. Mycroft Holmes had kicked the back of his own foot and bumbled into the room, met with the wide, worried eyes of his fiance and a confused, but pleased, smirk from his little brother. That smirk quickly fell when he took in his brother. Coffee stain of his cuff, which was worrying enough since the man didn't spill things, hair a mess in Mycroft terms, and dull shoes. No shine on them, and the umbrella was a year old, he had accidentally left his pocket watch at home and was very displeased about it. Conclusion: Mycroft was distraught, very distraught. Guilty also.

"Myc...what's wrong?" Lestrade noticed? Odd, Mycroft looked put together in normal human standards.

"I am fine, Gregory." Voice very tired, didn't sleep last night. Mycroft looked at the two seats that were taken, his eyes changed when they hit John's. Something dark, scary, foreign washed over them. Regret, guilt, sadness. His face looked like John had just died yesterday, not seven months ago. The look disappeared as he looked at Sherlock, and leaned against the umbrella and crossed his ankles. "Have you eaten, brother dearest?"

"I had a piece of toast this morning with my tea."

"Order us some take away, Gregory?" Mycroft asked, turning to his fiance, who looked like he'd been struck in the face. "Gregory?" Mycroft voice hitched a bit with worry,but the two other men in the room were dumb struck into silence.

"Takeaway?" Lestrade squeaked, eyes still wide. He turned to meet Sherlock's equally confused, stunned gaze. Sherlock could only manage a slow nod, looking back at the confused Mycroft who was typing on his phone worriedly. Texting. Open expressions on his face. Takeaway! Sherlock tried to deduce it all, but the only thought he came up with was: Mycroft. Is. Broken.

"Yes..oh I will do it." Mycroft was annoyed now, and it was obvious. Not just the annoyed Mycroft kind of tone was in his voice, no the normal: I am obviously very aggravated with your existence. tone was what he had. All of it was wrong, and Lestrade looked like he was going to be ill. Mycroft quickly punched in a number, after a fast Google, and order them all Chinese. Getting the perfect order for everyone, of course.

"What's wrong?" Lestrade managed, and Mycroft sighed, pinching his nose between his fingers.

"Nothing, I'm fine."

"Liar." Lestrade huffed, eyeing the other man and then turning to a bewildered Sherlock. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's obviously distressed. Emotionally. I'd say it was a fight between the two of you, but you are fine so that is clearly impossible." Sherlock tried to piece it all together in his dull, broken mind but was coming up short. "He looks pained, annoyed. Spilled coffee, right sleeve and lack of sleep. Hints towards something at work, but the emotional side says otherwise. Somewhat personal then. I almost want to say someone recently died, very recently but that's impossible. I'd know." Mycroft went pale at the last line, hanging his head just a bit when the doorbell rang.

"I will get it." The government official said, rushing down the stairs as his phone began to ring. He answered and paused on the stairs, tension draining from his shoulders. Relieved, but still something was wrong. This sudden change in his brother was making Sherlock's head hurt, and he flopped face first back into the couch cushions.

"That was bloody strange." Lestrade mumbled, not expecting a response he picked up one of the many books John had left around the flat. Something like 'The Dwarf', or 'The small person' or...Oh! 'The Hobbit.' One of John's favorites. Sherlock grumbled an agreement, and shifted on the couch again, cursing this world.

Only three more weeks, then he would leave forever.

* * *

Mycroft was at the hospital. He'd eaten with his fiance and brother before rushing to Lyon. On the way to get take away he'd gotten the call he'd been waiting for since John got stabbed. The doctor was stable, but still under medically induced a coma. Now, Mycroft was siting in the hospital room, lying beside a very pale, very beaten John. The man's hand had been bandaged, also his leg, and his lip was sewn shut. It had been a very large gash and would leave a scar. The younger mans pale skin made the bruises over his face, and entire body, stand out startlingly. His dark black hair was tangled, greasy and dirty, and the bags under his eyes were disconcerting. Mycroft knew John had been injured a lot in these months, but he hadn't seen it. Now, now he was met with the foreign feeling of guilt in his stomach. He'd been experiencing it since the fall towards Sherlock, but now it was horribly overpowering. The man's fractured ribs were just healing, he had at least seven new scars, a healing contusion in his wrist, a sprained ankle and many, many cuts and bruises.

He looked horrible, and it was Mycroft's fault. He'd expected a bit of guilt, he did care for the man though he loathed to admit it, but this was strangling. He had to get John home soon, for his brother and the doctor's sake. John had been off of medicine holding him in a limbo of a coma for at least an hour now, but was still unconscious. The doctors were now considering a head injury, just another thing to add to the growing list of injuries the solider had.

Emotions were a foreign thing to the Holmes boys, they'd always had something a kin to them but never like others. Mycroft had watched his younger brother fall to pieces after John's 'death', and it had caused him...pain. Heartbreak, that was the term. What he was feeling was nothing compared to Sherlock, but it was there. A nagging sensation of pain, waves of anger at himself for doing this, sadness for his brother. Worry for the doctor, and now heavy guilt.

All of it was strange, this entire ordeal was causing strange things for everyone. Mycroft had realized his romantic feelings towards Gregory, Gregory had finally worked up the courage to tell Mycroft about his affections, Sherlock had finally seen that he was madly in love, and John? Well John had been ignoring all his emotions since it began, pretending he couldn't feel. Only caring about the mission, the gun in his hand. Mycroft was concerned about that also. John was always expressive, open, emotional but now he didn't say a word of how he felt. He got angry, but it wasn't real anger. No this was the kind of anger people experienced fleetingly, when they saw something they didn't like. It wasn't John anger. John had ignored everything, made himself immune to his own emotions, and that poured an extra layer onto the growing stack of guilt Mycroft had.

This plan was taking longer then planned, and he was horribly unhappy about it, Mycroft knew he was. The government official was greatly peeved about it also, but his emotions weren't meant to be seen. It was all wrong, and Mycroft knew it had to end. Sherlock was tearing himself to pieces over John's death, John was erasing his personality so he wouldn't have to miss Sherlock, and Mycroft was drowning in culpability. Moriarty had the luxury of dying on the damn roof, but the mess he left behind made Mycroft want to pull the man back into life just so he could beat him to death. That kind of anger was new to the man, and he wasn't very pleased with their appearance in his mind.

The only good thing to come of all this was Gregory and he's engagement. Mycroft had been attracted to the shorter man for some time, but emotional relationships were tedious. Somehow, the stress of John's mission had pushed Mycroft into furthering the relationship from business to personal. It was the best decision he'd made. Both men had fallen madly in love quickly, startlingly so, and Mycroft had purposed to his partner. Now Lestrade sported a yellow gold band that made Mycroft's stomach do a dance whenever it caught his eye, which was frequently.

Mycroft sighed deeply, pushing away the sentimental thoughts and training his mind back to John. The man had to wake up within a 24 hour window of the medicine being stopped or Mycroft was phoning every specialist in the world, and they all would come. John wasn't dying now, because Mycroft had a sinking feeling without John his little brother may not be in this world much longer.

* * *

Sherlock was staring at a body, he'd just pointed into the crowd and announced the killer was watching. A woman ran and was arrested, she admitted everything guiltily, and the entire case was closed. Now Sherlock was looking at the body, a short male, mid-thirties, blonde hair, two, lifeless blue eyes staring up at him, and he was wearing a striped jumper. Sherlock's heart lurched at the round face lying on the pavement, a horrible memory clawing out of the darkest parts of his mind.

_John on top of Barts, one foot dangling over the edge, his hands buried in his pockets, head tilted up as he stared at the sky. John's other leg flexing, pushing him forward, John's head turned up towards the sky as his body twisted in the air. John lying on the pavement, blood seeping into his shirt, jeans, hair everything. Two beautiful, wise, dead blue eyes staring back at Sherlock as he screamed._

Lestrade grabbed the younger man's arm, twisting him away from the body, an apology on his face. "Don't stare at him, Sherlock. Don't." The older man whispered, pulling Sherlock down the street. Anderson was about to sneer at him when Sally clamped a hand over his mouth and stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. Her gaze went back to the victim, the returned to Sherlock. Her face held something kind,and understanding as she let them pass, keeping a hand over the confused imbeciles lips.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said when the duo made it out to the street, Lestrade turned away from his mission of trying to flag a cab, titling his head at the consultant.

"Didn't say you weren't."

"Oh please. Your body language is-"

"Alright, alright! I'm worried." Lestrade held his hands up in mock surrender, and he shrugged. "That victim...he-"

"Looked a lot like John. Yes, I noticed." Sherlock plastered boredom over his words, trying to sound seem nonchalant, but the DI knew better.

"Yes." Lestrade didn't want to push, but he'd noticed how depressed Sherlock had grown. Something was nagging at his mind, some worry but every time he tried to grasp at it it flitted away. "Let's go to Baker Street, and then I'll order takeaway. You still have to eat today." The other man groaned dramatically as a cab pulled up. Both detectives climbed into the back seat, Lestrade throwing the address to the cabby and they were speeding off. Sherlock stared distractedly out the window, and Lestrade watched him, trying to catch that worried thought that told him something was going to happen. Greg pushed it away as irrational and turned to the window of the cab, watching London pass by.

Sherlock was pacing the length of the main room, grumbling under his breath as Lestrade watched him, arms crossed, waiting for Mycroft. "He's acting odd isn't he?"

"Hm?"

"When you two are together, does he act odd?" Sherlock huffed, throwing his hands out and stopping to glare at Lestrade. The 'You are so stupid my brain cells are crying' glare that was awarded to the DI daily.

"A bit, yeah. He's stressed, probably work."

"No. No, it's personal." Sherlock said, turning on his heels to continue pacing. "He spilt coffee, he was distracted. He's showing emotions, emotionally stressed then. His umbrella's a year old, sentimental." He continued, tapping a long finger against his chin and then bringing both hands up under his chin to take up his thinking pose. Lestrade groaned bodily, flopping back in Sherlock's chair. He looked over to John's chair, silently pleading for the late arm doctor to waltz in the door, or at least send his Sherlock taming mojo to the detective out of pity. Neither of these things happened, instead a very stressed looking Mycroft walked into the room. Sherlock stopped mid step, back to the men and a bit of strain in his shoulders disappeared._ 'Worried? Sherlock had been worried about Mycroft's late arrival, how odd.' _That was the thought in everyone's mind when Mycroft cleared his throat. Sherlock spun around, hands falling to his side and finding his trouser pockets.

"Brother."

"Mycroft."

"Greg." Mycroft nodded, at Lestrade and Sherlock cocked his head like a puppy. "Lestrade." Mycroft sighed, shaking his head slightly at his brothers lack of basic knowledge. The younger man had already deleted the solar system since John re-taught it to him. Sherlock nodded slowly, eyes flicking to the DI before turning back to examine his brother. Mycroft felt himself stand up a bit straighter under the scrutiny, the reaction he was still unable to stop whenever his brother put him under his full gaze. Mycroft berated himself as the small smirk appeared on Sherlock's lips, self satisfied as ever. "Are you about done?"

"Personal, definitely personal. You are stressed, evident by the clenching of your right fist. Your tired, you've been waiting up for something...or someone. Your back is aching, your shifting your feet and slumping forward. Your suit is very less put together then normal, you were thinking of other things while dressing. Stressed, guilty, tired, back ache...hospital? You were waiting in a hospital for someone, or near someone. Who? Why? Lestrade?" Sherlock's words were firing so quickly the DI was having trouble keeping up, as usual, but finely blinked slowly and turned to his fiance.

"Myc...?" Mycroft's shoulders slumped forward in defeat as he hung his head just barely, giving Lestrade a look that said: 'I can't tell you.' Something the DI had grown use to in there time together.

"Soon, you'll both know soon." Mycroft replied, straightening himself and hiding away all the obvious clues Sherlock had picked up. _'Probably.' _His mind whispered as he seated himself on the couch awkwardly, tossing a file onto the table. "I have a case for you, Sherlock."

"I'm not interested-"

"You are, I promise." Mycroft flicked open the file slowly, heaving a sigh as the name Moran caught Sherlock's eyes and he quickly snatched the file away. Mycroft didn't want to push Sherlock back towards Moriarty's web, but John couldn't take on Moran. He was busy, extremely so. He'd finally woken up just before Mycroft had gone back to London, and was in physical therapy for a week before he'd return to the mission. Mycroft had told him no, had told him to do mission command instead but the brave solider just glared pathetically from his bed and growled.

"I'm finishing this." Before the nurse had rushed medication back into his blood, making him relinquish the pinning stare he had on the eldest Holmes. Said brother knew he couldn't argue, and he hated feeling like he'd lost that tiny bit of control. John had always been a force to be reckoned with, but Mycroft hadn't been aware how strong that force was until 7 months ago.

_"I got a note." Johns voice said immediately after Mycroft answered._

_"Wonderful." Mycroft drawled with boredom, this doctor always seemed so tedious. "What did it say? 'Do you like me, check yes or no?'"_

_"Don't be an idiot." John growled quietly, obviously trying to hide the phone call from someone. It was 7 A.M, probably Sherlock then. "It was from Moriarty." Now Mycroft was shocked into momentary silence, righting himself quickly he answered:_

_"You haven't told Sherlock."_

_"How did you-You know what, don't tell me." John took a steadying breath, this note had put him on edge. Very on edge. "No, because it wasn't for Sherlock. Moriarty left it on my bed. It says 'The game is changing-J.M.'"_

_"Sounds as though it was for Sherlock."_

_"I also got a text from an unknown number. It said ' 's roof, wear something pretty. It's time to fall ;-)' " John whispered quickly, he was nervous, but determined. Mycroft already knew what that text meant, and his quick brain was concocting a dozen plans to go about the ordeal. "I...need your help. Call me when you've figured something out." That wasn't a question, it was an order. An order from a captain, and even the all knowing, controlling Mycroft knew not to argue with the tone John's voice took. The dial tone came through next, and Mycroft texted Anthea-well her name was Bethany right now, but that needed to be changed- to meet him in his fourth office in 20 minutes. _

_The game certainly was changing._

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the old floor of 221B as this memory passed through his mind in seconds, and he shook his head slowly as his fiance and brother discussed Sebastian Moran. Yes, John Watson certainly was a man no one expected, but everyone should fear. The title Ghost fit him better then the captain would every realize.

* * *

John had been stabbed before, hell he'd been shot, but the pain flaring in his leg as he walked on the treadmill ,so his physical therapist could note his progress, was a deep, mind boggling agony that he didn't remember. Even his psychosomatic lip paled in comparison to this; it made his eyes bug and sting with tears, his entire thigh pulse and his fist clench until the gash across his palm screamed in protest. The therapist smiled sweetly at him, her pretty face making John's cheeks pink.

"Good, Mr. Sholto." Nurse Mary Morstan nodded, checking something off on her clipboard and meeting john's pained eyes with her patient, powder blue ones. "Better then yesterday, very nice." She had an English accent, apparently moving to France after being raised in London. John was very pleased by this fact, the English speaking French doctors he'd met so far's accents made his head hurt. "Let's get you back to your room."

"Yes, thank you." John smiled, filling his voice with the Irish accent he'd grown used to using. He'd even forgotten to drop it while talking to Mycroft on multiple occasions. He took the small woman's offered arm, limping beside her back to his room, both of them chatting and laughing the entire way. She was a sweet girl, kind and witty. John had to admit he was looking forward to tomorrows physical therapy. They said quick goodbye's, and he kissed her cheek in a friendly gesture before she blushed, turning and leaving his room.

"Goodnight, Mr. Sholto." She waved, then closed a very happy John's door. He lowered himself gently into his bed looking around his,thankfully, empty room. Mycroft had of course assured him a private room, but it seemed a different member of his team was there at all hours. He let his mind wander to Mary, she was very pretty with her short blonde hair, and clear blue eyes. Her voice was soothing, and she made him smile until his face hurt. He kept his mind trained on this gorgeous, kind, funny woman, avoiding every stray thought of Sherlock as he went.

He didn't dare wonder what Sherlock could deduce about her. He never once thought if his flatmate would be jealous, or if he'd like Ms. Morstan. John definitely didn't imagine up all the ways Sherlock may postpone, or end, a date with the kind nurse; or think of how much he'd rather that date be with the crazed consulting detective. No, john didn't think any of that because he couldn't miss Sherlock, he couldn't want Sherlock, and he certainly couldn't imagine being on a date with Sherlock. For all he knew Sherlock would hate him when he came home, and he was more then sure Sherlock didn't have romantic feelings for him. The man was a-sexual, most likely, and even if he wasn't John was bland, old, boring, and crippled-not to mention dead in his mind- he'd never love the doctor.

It was simply impossible; and that thought most definitely _didn't _break John's heart a little.


	12. Chapter 12

**Quick note: **_Oh! Oh! I love your comments! Thank you for all the reviews, everyone who has made them. I love, love, LOVE them. I was smiling until my face hurt! I'm sorry I made you cry, btw! All of you, thanks for reading! PLEASE reviews this chapter, and tell me what you think, oh an I added in more Sherlock grave scenes ;)_

_**disclaimer again: **_**I do not own Sherlock, I don't pretend to. It belongs to it's lovely creators on BBC and Doyle! Yay!**

* * *

Sherlock walked slowly through the cemetery, passing neat lines of loved ones past. His coat was pulled tight around him, bone shoulders perfectly outlined under the thick fabric, collar flipped up in his dramatic fashion. His hair was dipping into his face, wet with slushy rain of February. Or was it March? Maybe it was still January, Sherlock had no idea. He hadn't cared for dates since Christmas past, counting the days hurt so much. Too much. It was Wednesday, of course, and he'd slipped away from the watch of Lestrade long enough to visit John alone. His fast gaze picked up passing headstones:

_Lilly Carson 1997-2012_

_Taken to young._

_Robert O'Neal 1968-2010_

_Beloved husband and father._

One in particular caught his eye, it was obviously that of a child. A black marble stone, golden letters shining in the early morning light, various children's toys, plastic flowers, and other object surrounding it. The stone was in the shape of a heart, it read:

_Rose Hadley_

_May 22nd, 2012-December 19th, 2012_

_'Never say goodbye, because saying goodbye means going away; and going away means forgetting.-Peter Pan' We will never forget you, our darling Rose.-Mummy&Daddy. _

Something horribly human, pedestrian, and mundane inside Sherlock twisted in sympathetic sadness. The girl wasn't even a year old, too young, she hadn't done anything to die. She hadn't the time to sin as he, not the chance to hurt people with words, or learn all the information this world swam with. She wasn't able to feel truly beloved by a friend, someone who chose to accept you for you, and no other reason. She could have been an amazing girl, an intelligent woman, but this world saw fit to end her before she began. Like it saw fit to take a golden soul, a true hero like John instead of an angry sinner,with darkness for a heart like Sherlock. That was the only true crime Sherlock saw now, the end to those worthy of life and the continuation of those not.

Straightening his back, and pushing away the dark emotions that crawled his consciousness like he'd become accustom to, Sherlock strode forward, not sparing another glance to the innocent child's stone that lie behind him. He took the familiar path to a single bench, surrounded by plastic flowers, and a tree directly behind it. A few other headstones rest at it's sides, but the spot where it lie was solitary. Made to be noticed, seen, remembered, unlike the man it represented. The man who hid under large jumpers, never letting this world see the astonishing truth that was John. Sherlock stood stock still, back ram rod straight and shoulder squared, perfect solider posture. He always started the visit's like this, a silent stare leveled at John's grave, containing all the pain he'd hidden away in silver eyes. They were always silver when he visited the grave, some would say grey but they were blind. No, his eyes glistened in whatever light lay over the field of memories, sparkling with tears. A bright glint washed over the piercing steel, making them a gut twisting silver that inspired a deep pity in all who met his withering stare.

Sherlock brought his leather clad hand to his brow, giving john's grave a sharp salute before relaxing a bit and clutching his hands at his back. "John." His voice cracked, dammit, his solid resolve always crumbled in the shadow of the bench-grave. "Your sister and Clara send their regards, and wish you could help pick out baby names. It seems Clara is carrying their offspring, they found a donor that looked to be related to you. Possibly a cousin. The baby is a girl, she due to be born around May 22, is memory serves. I'm sure you would have loved to see it, sentimental as you are." Sherlock took a deep breath, a smirk playing at his lips for his own hypocrisy. Had he any right to call another sentimental, seeing as he was taking his own life for not to be without another person because of love? It certainly wasn't his area, but that seemed largely sentimental. "They plan to name her something like Joan, or Johannah in your honor. Harriet says she wished to name the child after you before your...passing, and I think it may be true. I barely socialize with your sister, I wouldn't if it could be helped, so I am not completely up to date on these things."

Sherlock's voice was embarrassingly wavy as he continued on, telling John about a few of his latest cases. Rattling off deductions, and pausing between them for a few seconds, pretending the wind in the trees, the thrum of London's streets, and the rustle of snow and leaves was John's tenor voice exclaiming 'Brilliant!' 'Amazing!' or 'Utter genius!' at him. It was never enough, nothing would ever be enough, but it sufficed. It would do until Sherlock could close his eyes and know a nightmare wouldn't be waiting for him, because he'd never be opening them again. Soon enough, he'd have a headstone near John's, but it wouldn't be the same. His would be a single stone, only stating his name and years of life, no sentimental note, no flowers; just barren, empty ground left for passers by to pity at. It would pale in comparison to the well loved, flower surrounded, overly visited grave of his neighbor, but that was fine. Everyone always thought John lacked when standing beside Sherlock, but in death they would see the truth.

Sherlock was barely something to remember beside the loyal, bright, patient, amazing John.

"Mycroft and Lestrade are engaged, the date isn't set yet. It's odd, Mycroft always loves having unchangeable plans. Perhaps he's waiting for something." Sherlock continued after a long silence, stepping closer to the grave. "It will be a wonderful affair, loud and attention commanding, Mycroft would have it no other way" Too bad I won't get to see it. He finished in his head, because John didn't need to know that. Unimportant, dull. "You would surely have adored it." He said instead, leaning down to lay a hand on top of the bench he never sat on. "See you next week, Captain." He whispered into the cold air, his breath fogging from his lips as he stood, stooped forward and nearly in tears, over the simple, but memorable grave of Dr. John Watson.

Sherlock spun on his heels, pulling the large coat around his thin frame as he rushed from the stone, blinking tears away from his silver eyes. It wouldn't to break character now, he was so close. No one suspected anymore, Mycroft,Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson only stopped by to make him eat and then left, everyone was falling into his plan. They were doing what he predicted, and for once it wasn't dull. No, no, not dull at all, because if they did as he predicted, if it all went the way he planned he'd be gone by April, whenever that was. Mrs. Hudson had agreed, in a great state of confusion, to tell him when the first day of April arrived. Then he could finish his plan, a bit earlier then he originally wanted. At first he'd planned to end himself on the year anniversary, July 7th, but that was far to long. No, April 1st, and it would all be over.

He'd be away from this horrible pain once and for all.

* * *

"Stop pacing." Mycroft sighed, watching John walk the length of the hotel room for the fifteenth time. He'd come back to Lyon to help john move on to Australia, an unexpected branch of the web and recently grown in number and strength and had to be stopped immediately. John had finished his work in Lyon, where the largest part of Moriarty's strong hold in France had sprouted, and was healing very nicely. The nurse, Mary something or other, had signed his official release paper, and they were to be on the plane in hours.

"Can't."

"Why?"

"Because! Australia! That wasn't even on the possibilities list!" John shouted, throwing his hands out and continuing on his well practiced route through the room. "No one ever mentioned Australia, and here you are seeing me off!"

"I told you, I have business in Australia and I thought it pointless to hire two jets to go to the same place." Mycroft drawled, checking his watch yet again. The doctor had been doing this for five minutes now, ever since Mycroft told him about the minor set back. "You should be back in the U.K in mid April, May at the latest."

"Back, but not back?" John sighed, finally stopping his walk to turn and look at Mycroft. "When am I...being resurrected?"

"Don't be so dramatic." Mycroft sniffed, tapping his umbrella against the floor in irritation. It was hard on him, John didn't realize, but it was. Seeing his little brother tearing himself to pieces over it all but having to keep his mouth shut, no matter what. His own fiance was still rather broken up about one of his closest friends taking his own life, and Mycroft was extraordinarily stressed. It wasn't easy for anyone, and this new relocation was settling a new worry in Mycrofts mind. A worry for Sherlock, who seemed to be getting better but something, some part of the older mans mind kept nagging at him that it was just wrong! John needed to get back to London and soon, for everyone's sake. "You will be-what did you callit?- resurrected? Yes, resurrected soon after arriving in London. That part of Moriarty's web is near taken care of."

"Sherlock?"

"And Gregory have been working together on the remaining members." Mycroft said, watching John throw is small amounts of belongings into a suitcase. "They will be well and taken care of before the end of this month." Mycroft heard the shorter man mumble some sort of agreement as he rummaged through everything, tossing his new phone away in frustration.

"What is this one, a Drool?"

"Droid. It's called a Droid." Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as the other man rushed about in a haze. "The Iphone will return when you are in England. For now you use this. Do try and stop downloading pointless apps."

"Oh yes because I just love playing flappy bird, and crashing the little circle thing into those beams. It's idiotic and annoying and it makes me angry." John rambled, tossing the, now disconnected, Iphone at Mycroft, narrowly missing the other mans nose. "It doesn't even make sense! Was it invented to bother people? I don't even-" His angry rant was cut off by the noise of a message, a video message to be exact. Both men had forgotten that it was a Wednesday. John met Mycroft's expectant eyes for a second before practically lunging at the forgotten Droid on the desk. "Sherlock's visit." He mumbled to himself, trying in vain to play the video. Mycroft held out a palm, and after receiving a withering glare from John, had the phone placed in it. He tapped at the screen with ease, bringing the video up onto the screen for them both to watch.

_"See you next week, Captain." _

Why? Why did Sherlock always call him Captain when he left. It made his carefully locked away emotions jump, and his lungs go dry. John gulped back his tears, ignoring every part of him that screamed to just call the genius. To just say 'hello', and 'I miss you.' John snatched the phone away from Mycroft, summoning up the best Captain voice he had and speaking in that even, unarguable tone.

"Soon. I am going home soon."

"Of course." Mycroft agreed in a daze, the pure emotion_-pain, grief, anger, regret, love, and despair- _on his younger siblings face paired with the crisp, _'Don't you fucking say no to me.' _tone John's voice had taken put the man into a stupor. The entire plan was more emotionally tolling-for everyone else- and physically torture-for John- then he'd ever predicted. Damn Moriarty and his clever, psychotic little brain. This web, Jim's legacy, was going down, brick by brick.

It was going to disappear.

* * *

Sherlock was a man who always knew what to say, John had said he would outlive God trying to get in the last word. He was clever, quick, and had a sharp tongue. He could take apart someone's life with words, end a relationship with elegance, and tell of a psychopath with a bomb strapped to his best friend like a gentleman. What he couldn't do was word this note correctly. Every line sounded wrong, every tone he tried to take was horrible, it was all ridiculous! He'd tried to sound cold and distant, like his life didn't matter. He'd tried proper and posh, but that was failing. Classy and determined was a flop, and stuck up and board was just stupid. He'd tried every way he knew to write this, but it. Just. Wasn't. Working! Sherlock called the memory of John's note up in his head, reluctantly, and tried to deduce the tone it held. Humorous, light hearted, and most of all...sentimental.

Was that what he needed to be? Sentimental? Pour his feeling, his reasons, onto paper so all the idiots around him would understand. That sounded ridiculous, embarrassing, and very, very un-Sherlockian that it just might work. Sherlock lay his pen to the paper, taking a deep breath. It didn't have to be perfect, this was a draft after all, but it was still something real. More than the pills, the vodka, the plan hidden away in the darkest reaches of his mind palace. This was solid, whole, this was why and it was making it all real.

_Dear various acquaintances, and Mycroft:_

_This really shouldn't be a surprise to you all, though I fear it is (pity those little minds you all have, except Mycroft). My reasons should be obvious, but I shall give them to you anyways: 1. This world is terribly boring. 2. The criminals have lost all cleverness they once had. 3. You're all idiots (Except Mycroft, you are just pompous.) 4. I cannot find a good Chinese restaurant since the one I liked closed. 5. The puzzles have become mundane. 6. Everyone will be fine without me, so I may as well. 7...John._

_I should probably elaborate on a few of those. Number 4 may seem extremely strange, and stupid, but that restaurant was very good. John's favorite, mine also, when I ate. Number 6 isn't some sort of way to make you all feel bad, it is simply true. You may be some what sad, or disappointed, but my absence from this world will make no great impact on anyone. I leave no broken hearts behind me, I am just a man who can think. The world will be unfortunately lacking when I am gone, but no ones life will be thrown up side down._

_And 7. This one may seem obvious, but I wish to elaborate. I'm the dying(Dead?) man here, so let me. Without John everything is...duller. Not just boring, but lacking in color. With him he brought new views to my life, he held something I didn't have myself and he filled that part of me. He made me a whole man, and without him I am a broken genius. My mind palace is crumbling with sentimental pain, dare I say heartbreak, and this is the only logical solution. Without my mind I am nothing, and John took the stability of my mind with him. He made not only my thoughts clearer, but my feelings and understanding. He made me better, and without him I cannot return to the way I was. If I could, I would, but he has torn me down with his death. John was more then a friend to me, he was...my color. He was the human part of me, the part I tried to ignore. He brought red to my white, blue to my grey, green to my black. A genius is nothing without his blogger, and no i am nothing._

_Some have said that John was dull, in general and especially when compared to me. I say you are all amazingly idiotic (yes, even you Mycroft). John may have seemed dull, for he hid his genius under those horrid jumpers. John was not dull. He was loved, wanted, cared for. He changed people'es lives, and they never even noticed. One day you'd just wake up and realize that you love John Watson, and it wasn't a choice. You never know when, or why, or how you simply knew that you did, and that you couldn't stop. I say that in comparison even the great Sherlock Holmes is dull._

_This is my note, I'm writing this because that is what people do. They explain so those left in the wake of their decision understand, and can move on. John wrote one of these, but I still do not understand., and it most certainly was of no assistance in my 'moving on'. I have no wish to live in a world without my doctor, and so this was the only option. So sorry._

_Only John's,_

_Sherlock Holmes._

_(Mycroft this counts as my signature, I have no wish to use my full name.)_

Sherlock was shaking when he put the pen down. His forehead coated in a cold sweat, and his shoulder shuddering. Crying? Yes, he was crying again. Sentiment was such a peculiar thing. As Sherlock re read the note he decided there was to be no more tries, and the people he left behind would simply have to accept this. He couldn't go through that again. Going through and writing out everything he felt and thought, it was painful. He was going to die soon, what did it matter anyways? He pulled out an envelope with his convulsing hand, folding the paper precisely and slipping it inside. Now to hide it where no one would look. Sherlock stood on jello legs, shuffling his way to John's tea kettle in the kitchen. He took in a sharp, painful breath as he slipped the envelope beneath the kettle, trying his best not to disturb it. After a horrible 5 minutes of shaking, probably crying, and slow movements the paper was well hidden beneath the dust covered object.

"Soon, John." He whispered to the silent air of his too still flat. The rooms were shouting nothing at him, the dark air of loneliness crushing in on him slowly, pushing the oxygen from his lungs. Sherlock leaned against the kitchen table, taking a few painfully dry breaths, squeezing his eyes shut against the harsh world around him. He ignored the world swirling in his head, pushing every deduction and random bit of information into the shadows. Leaving him alone with John's ghost in his mind palace.

* * *

_'Hey Sher!'_

_'You never called me that.'_

_'No, 'I' didn't, but you like it. I know you do, plus I bet 'I' would have.' The John speaking to him was transparent, wearing grey cargo jeans and a white t-shirt, his dogs tags looped around his neck, resting proudly against his chest. His hair was a little longer than when Sherlock had first met him, Sherlock liked it a little longer. 'John' wasn't wearing shoes, and looked completely at home in the odd outfit, smiling brightly at Sherlock._

_'You know my plan?' Sherlock was in his dark purple shirt and black trousers, the dogs tags John had left to him hung against his chest. An eerie match to the ghost in front of him._

_'Mhm, but I don't like it Sher." John pouted, crossing his arms. 'You shouldn't.'_

_'I have too, having a doppelganger of John isn't enough.'_

_'I'm not a doppelganger!'_

_'Yes, you are! You are a concoction of my mind, an image of my John! The way I picture him in my grief. Ghostly, but still perfect!' Sherlock shouted, causing 'John' to recoil backwards, an adorable look of confusion and fright on his face. Why the hell did Sherlock picture him so innocent?_

_'Nothing I'm going to say will change your mind.'_

_'Obviously. I can't live without John. The real John.' Sherlock spoke softly now, his human instincts kicking in. He didn't want to see 'John' look so frightened, or hurt. A hallucination in his mind or not, it looked like John. _

_'Alright, fine.' John was pouting again, looking up at Sherlock through his lashes and cocking his head slightly to the left. Sherlock cursed the kick he felt in his chest at the look, of course his mind knew exactly the looks for John to make to get the butterflies in his stomach coming to life. _

_'I curse how good you are at that.'_

_'Not as good as the real John?'_

_'No.' Sherlock nodded, crossing his arms and looking down at the John a few feet away from him. 'I have to leave.'_

_'How? This is your mind, Sher, you can't escape.'_

_'No, but I can end it.' And with that Sherlock was turning on his heels, suddenly in his billowing coat as he strode away from the apparition of John. _

_"Goodbye, Sherlock."_

_'No, not goodbye. Goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting. I'm never going to forget John."'Sherlock barked at the creation of his mind, glaring at the blankness ahead._

* * *

Sherlock startled out of his mind palace, sitting on the kitchen floor in a heap, wrapped in his dressing gown. Damn, those little adventures were becoming more and more realistic. He really was going mad, wasn't he? The genius stretched his legs out, cracking his neck and then pulling himself back to a standing position. Going through a mental checklist, he realized the plan was nearly ready to be put into action.

**x**1. Get Lorazempam, and vodka.

**x**2. 'Move on'.

**x**3. Write note.

**x**4. Write will.

5. Ensure Mrs. Hudson's financial stability.

6. Buy grave next to John's.

7. Wait for April 1st.

3 more objectives and he was ready, he could do it. It was really ending soon. A bitter, pathetic, black happiness over came the detective as he collapsed onto the couch and grinned like a cat. Soon, soon and he'd be free of this dark pain, this heartbreak.


	13. Chapter 13

**Quick note: **_Your comments are amazing! *Throws flowers* I love you all, I'm so happy you're reading! I'm honored your enjoying it! You. Are. amazing. _

* * *

"Sherlock, you have to come." Lestrade sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock was lying in his 'tortured genius' pose across the sofa, refusing to move. "It's not going to be that bad. Myc is going."

"'Myc' is going for you, because somehow you earned my brothers affections. Though, I have no idea how or when." Sherlock grumbled, rolling over to face the back of the couch. He was not getting up, or going to that ridiculous party.

"It's going to be fun. You can deduce everyone before 9 and go home." Lestrade sighed, looking at his silent fiance with a plea in his eyes. No one could deal with Sherlock like this, well no one alive anyways.

"Sherlock, come now. Don't make me call my 'lackies', as you named them." Mycroft said, resisting the urge to smile at the relief crossing his partners face. When he fell for the DI was anyone's guess, but why was an easy question. The man was stubborn as bull, patient to a fault, and even if Sherlock refused to acknowledge it, he was intelligent.

"What do you prefer I call the meat slabs in suits that you hire?" Sherlock quipped, switching to a mocking tone as he continued. "Brutes? Gorilla's in human suits? Body guards?"

"Just come on!" Lestrade whined, throwing his hands up and glaring at the back of the defiant genius. "Please."

"No."

"Git! Curly haired, insufferable little git!" Lestrade hissed, throwing Sherlock's large coat at him along with the not-exactly-blue scarf. "You are getting out of this dingy flat and having a miserable time and that's that!"

"_Fiiiiiiiiiine_." Sherlock drew out the word in a high pitched whine, rolling onto the floor like a 2 year old who has to go to the dentist. "But I will not like it."

"Good." Mycroft replied, sweeping out of the room with a swing of his umbrella. Lestrade watched him go, sighing fondly and smiling before turning back to the disagreeable other half of the brothers.

"Let's go." He growled, pushing the now standing Sherlock into his bedroom to change. "Put on something other then your sheets." Sherlock grumbled something, slamming the door closed as the DI laughed. "Yup, Myc told me all about that little adventure." There was a loud bang, probably something being thrown as Sherlock had a minor temper tantrum. A few moments later a very annoyed looking Sherlock Holmes swung his bedroom door open, earning a very unmanly squeak of surprise from the DI leaning against the wall. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, making his eyes look like aqua lightening as the twinkled with murderous thoughts for his brother, and black trousers. His hair was perfectly messy, and his skin looked ghostly in comparison to all the dark shades he put himself in.

"Let's go then." He hissed, stomping from the room and snatching up his scarf and coat. If he was forced to go to this stupid party, he was going to make it hell for everyone. Lestrade shook his head as he followed, knowing this night would be horrible for everyone who was unfortunate enough to scuttle into Sherlock's eye line.

Well, at least he wouldn't be bored.

* * *

John was in Australia.

John was in Australia, and John was afraid of snakes. These two things together were mixing like oil and water, and he was bordering on homicidal actions if another God damned snake slithers past my feet. Oh my fucking Lord, this is so ridiculous I could shoot Mycroft. John was shouting at his Australian team, trying desperately to sort out their slang, and his voice had not been at an average level for at least a day. If he wasn't yelling at some idiot, screaming for someone with a gun to settle down, or shouting for someone to bring him a bandage wrap, he was screeching about a snake.

Not screeching like a frightened school girl, mind you, he was screeching curse words or death threats. Anyone and everyone near him when a snake touched him was either going to get demeaned and shouted at, or had to run for their dignity. Because when John got scared he got very angry. So angry his vision narrowed, and his entire body vibrated with heat. His cheeks would pink, and he'd blame everything in the world for his fright. Though the proud doctor would never admit it, he had severe Ophidiophobia: the abnormal fear of snakes.

The fact he hadn't let himself feel much of any emotion in these 8 months was not helping with his sanity either. He'd made a grown man, nearly 7 feet tall with rippling muscles and a voice that shook windows, break down into tears after a shouting match with John;who had just accidentally stepped on a Yellow-Faced Whip Snake. Said snake then bit the man who John had chased into a house, and tried to stab him with a _spork._

_A spork!_ Of all the things that had been thrown at John during this little adventure, that was the most ridiculous. The newspaper in Mongolia was odd, the plastic ninja star in Japan was amusing, the tiny replica of the Eiffel tower from France was disturbing, but a spork was ridiculous. John definitely had stories to tell Sherlock when he got back. There was no 'if' anymore, he was going back to Sherlock. The man may never know John's feelings, or he may resent them, he could even despise John when he got back, but the doctor was going back. If only just to see Sherlock again, at least once.

John cursed the doubts consuming his mind right then. Dark, horrible voices whispering, _'He's going to hate you. You tricked him, lied to him! He only ever trusted you, and this is what you do to him?' _The voices would snicker in maddening unison, gnawing at John's last shreds of sanity with every word. _'He will __**hate**__ you!" _

The words would bounce through John's level mind every moment, always escaping the little area he locked his emotions in. Even when the gun was in his hand, and the world narrowed to one objective,they would float through his every thought. Lacing themselves into every conscious idea he had, tearing him up slowly from inside out. The guilt was horribly painful, worse then any of the number of injuries he'd obtained lately. John looked down at the healing pink line on his palm, tracing the scar tissue with his fingers. That was one of the more obvious scars, along with the one on his thigh and the other up his side, curving under his arm and stopping midway through his shoulder blade. Topped off by the small line across his bottom lip, starting at the left corner and jutting to the middle of his lip, before disappearing into his mouth. It wasn't very noticeable to the eye, only a discoloration, but when he touched it it was obvious.

These were his battle scars, he had many all across his body from his years of life. Those he was used to, he even had pride in them, but the mental scratches and slashes weren't something he could tolerate. This swirling guilt that sunk it's fingers into his brain wasn't going away, and it was becoming harder to act like the level headed captain Mycroft's team needed. This...this **sin** against Sherlock's trust, Sherlock's-Dare he say- _love_, it was a snarling, drooling monster sitting heavily over his heart. Tracing it's dark gray threads into his veins and over running his entire body in a hot, horrible dread. This kind of guilt couldn't be described, only felt; and it was a horrible thing to feel.

Tying his emotions together and ignoring the growing ball of dread that clawed up his back like a demon was the only was he could finish this. John had to pretend he felt nothing, or nothing deep that is. He smiled at jokes, he got angry, he yelled, but none of it made it past his presentation of self. Everything he 'felt' around others was an act. Nothing but the deep, gut tangling need to get home and the sanity eating, consuming guilt was real.

He used to say he fought for Queen and Country, for the people and the nation he was loyal to. Not anymore, now he says, if only to himself, that he fights for Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

March 17th, that was the date. Sherlock hadn't meant to find out, it just happened. At the party, while he was explaining to Sally that Anderson did not plan to divorce his wife, someone had mentioned it. Not to him, but to the woman-who was obviously in a gambling debt-to his left. He hadn't meant to hear it, he hadn't meant to find out just how long it'd been,but he did. 8 months, 8 _bloody _months! He'd lived in a colorless daze for 8 months. It seemed impossible, it seemed so much longer. Years, years and years. Every day without John felt like a month dragged away from Sherlock's life, cut from his body with a rusty dagger and snatched by the void that John had filled.

Sherlock had thought he felt nothing before, and he had, but now it was different. Now he felt empty. Hollow, completely and totally void of his internal organs. It was impossible, logic said he must still have them, but he couldn't feel them. Inside he was cold, like an Arctic blizzard had rested where his heart should be beating. Black ice in place of his lungs, and empty, freezing air taking up the place of his stomach and kidney's. Everything was gone, and Sherlock was empty and frigid. His blood was a winter's river flowing through his veins, every breath was lumps of hail landing inside him, then melting away to marry into the slithering streams of biting 'blood' in his veins.

Inside he was an iceberg, not like before. Not an iceberg who had no emotions, but a cold, lifeless man who stumbled around this world in a haze. Everything he saw was an ugly pastel, swirling together in his eyes as he plummeted further and further into depression. Unlike John, there was no ground to stop him,so he continued to fall. Farther and farther the empty, nothingness swallowed Sherlock up, consuming him entirely with it's horrible, gnashing teeth.

At first Sherlock had fought, he had tried to live without John. He wanted to do what John said, to keep living for them both. He couldn't, he tried but he couldn't! He had tried to crawl out of the endless abyss, but he never got closer to the top, always sinking further.

Finally, he had given up.

He untangled his fingers from their iron grasp on the darkness surrounding him, letting his body shoot downward in a rush. He hadn't stopped falling since that day, always sinking farther from sanity, happiness, and life. Ending his heartbeat, stopping his lungs from their monotone collapse, grow, collapse was only for show, because Sherlock Holmes was already dead inside.

The genius sat alone in his cold flat, he'd turned off the central heating because it didn't matter. He was so wintry inside that it the March air around him made no impression, only forcing his useless transport to shake and turn paler then usual. Sherlock was to far inside his head to notice how his teeth chattered in a loud staccato, or how his fist had clenched to preserve the warmth in his fingers. He couldn't feel every limb shaking so impressively his torso was shuttering with the convulsions, or how his lips had turned electric blue. No, he was trapped inside his own swirling mind, trying to sort out the twisting thoughts that jumped through it.

* * *

_Sherlock ran down an empty corridor in his mind palace, only to find himself at the beginning of it again. He swung himself bodily through a door reserved for classic fiction that he never used, only to find it taken over by the 'Queen of Hearts'. The entire room taking on the picture of his favorite book when he was 7, 'Alice in Wonderland.' Sherlock stare din open astonishment at the white rabbit that scurried past him, followed by...John._

_John in a light blue, long sleeve jumper with white stripes; and black jeans. He smiled happily at Sherlock, leaving the rabbit to continue in it's frantic hopping as he walked over to the stunned genius. 'Hey Sher!'_

_'W-what happened?'_

_'Oh, I thought your mind palace was kinda...dreary. So I opened up my favorite book and it just kinda took over!' John gave that childish tilt of his head, smiling. He was the picture of innocence, and Sherlock cursed himself again for picturing the man so strangely open and child like. _

_'John's favorite book is 'The Hobbit.'"_

_'It is now, but his favorite book when he was growing up was 'Alice in Wonderland!' You know that, he told you.' John smiled, completely indentured by the fact he was speaking in the third person about ''himself'. _

_'Ah, yes after the case with candle wax and the butcher knife.' Sherlock nodded, recalling the memory of a out-of-breath John smiling at him. He'd said, "Oh no, I'm late, I'm late for a very important date!" The doctor was supposed to go to dinner with his latest girlfriend, she'd told him if he canceled this or missed it they were over. Now Sherlock understood why the man gave so little care to the ending of the relationship. He had been in love with the mad genius the entire time. Sherlock had asked John about the quip later, and he'd explained that the book was his favorite. 'I suppose my mind pulled that up when creating you.'_

_'Hmmm, yes seems so.' John nodded, tapping the dog tags that hung over his chest. 'So, are you completely mad now?'_

_'As the hatter.' Sherlock sighed, eyeing the room that lie in shambles before him. Was he insane, or were normal people's minds this ridiculously...ridiculous?_

_'Ah there 'ya go Sher! Get into the mood of the place.' John laughed. Sherlock glared at him, turning and swinging the door open. _

_'I'm going to fix my mind palace.' He grumbled in explanation at John's offended huff, then he swept from the room. He turned many corners, rushing to the 'control room' as he called it. When he opened the door he saw 221B Baker Street, the same as the day John fell. John was sitting in his chair, still in the Wonderland get up. _

_'Took you a while.' John teased, setting his newspaper on the table. On the front was the caption that had adorned papers for weeks, until Sherlock had proven he was truly a genius and shut up all those ridiculous articles. Emboldened across the front was a picture of Barts, topped by the horrible headline Sherlock had seen many times in those weeks: 'Suicide of Fake Genius's Blogger!' _

_'Shut up.' Sherlock hissed, throwing the jacket he had somehow obtained on his way here over the paper. He fell onto the mind palace couch, closing his eyes and beginning his remodeling. What felt like hours later in the mind palace, and was probably just 20 minutes in the actual world, Sherlock opened his eyes to find the paper gone along with John's ghost. After a very long examination of the mind palace he found the great structure of his brain in rights, finally._

* * *

Sherlock gasped as he snapped out of his meditation like state, finding his muscles ridged and his body burning from cold. He was shaking and numb where he didn't feel like he was on fire, and his lungs were deathly dry. His lips felt like ice slabs, and his tongue rested like a desert in his mouth. His fingers thrummed with an unnameable pain when he moved them, and his toes were deathly purple.

_Probably hypothermia_ his now fixed mind supplied. He tried to reach for a blanket, only to find none in reach. His muscles were bands of frost, solid and numb, he couldn't move from his spot. The only thing in reach was his phone. Mrs. Hudson was out shopping, and had no cell phone.

_Only options: 999, or Mycroft and Lestrade. No, scratch that. Mycroft _and _Lestrade. _

His head helpfully said, as he attempted to groan in annoyance. He got a dry, squeaky breath from his dusty lungs and desert mouth. Wonderful, he couldn't talk or move, and he had to call his big brother for help. This annoyingly reminded him of his teenage years, when he'd been left for dead on one of the strangest Acid highs of his life and had to call Mycroft to save himself from being the victim of a mugging. With a great amount of effort, Sherlock unfolded his stale limbs. Stretching out frozen muscles and clasping his purple fingers over the phone. It was colder then his hands, and sent a jolt through his body as he pressed the buttons in a creaky, agonizing pace.

"Hello?" Lestrade answered. "Sherlock?" Sherlock managed a painful, broken noise between chattering teeth. "What was that? You sound like your underwater."

"Come...t-to...B-B-Baker St-St-Street." Sherlock grunted into the phone, glaring at the wall in embarrassment.

"Why?"

"N-need help-p-p." He answered, grudgingly. This was horribly embarrassing, and he'd much rather just slowly freeze to death. No, that wasn't right, he wasn't completely done with his list. He'd ensured 's finances, but only just, he could do her much better before April 1st, and he would. She deserved it, after what he was sure she was going to go through after his death.

"Be there soon." Lestrade said, ending the call and probably running to get Mycroft before heading over to the flat. Sherlock's eyes fluttered, and he felt a bone aching exhaustion rush his system as his head lolled to the side. Sleeping was bad, he knew that, but he couldn't stop himself. The cold side of the couch was _so _comfortable, and he was _so _tired. Just for a second, he'd only rest his eyes for a second and then he'd be fine.


	14. Chapter 14

**Quick note: **_Your comments are amazing! Keep commenting I love it! Oh and have a bit of Hamish fluff...just to...help with your feelings a bit._

_Keep commenting! I want to know what you think and love and want to see out of this story! Tell me!_

* * *

"Mycroft?" John asked, slipping into the quietest place he could find. The people he was staying with were a contact of Mycroft's, John suspected family members, and were very loud. They kept saying he reminded them of a kangaroo, the way he jumped when he saw a snake. John was really not enjoying his time in Australia. The sweat trailed it's itchy finger down his spine, pooling over a bandage on his right hip. An injury given to him by a large man with a beard and a stick, that would reward him with a scar that resembled a heart.

"John." Mycroft whispered, his voice nearly drown out by the sounds of what seemed to be an E.R. "You have a plane to get on."

"What? I thought I was heading to Ireland next week!" John hissed, watching a child with dark curls and bright blue eyes run past him. Said child turned, giving him the signature 'A Holmes is judging you' look over, before his face broke into a satisfied smirk. The child looked so much like Sherlock John thought his heart stopped.

"You are coming to London, temporarily." Mycroft replied, his tone forcing John to breath again. Th doctor's entire head spiraled, and he started to stumble. Catching his left foot on his right, he ended up heading face first towards a brick wall. Thanks only to his fast reflexes he caught himself on the wall, just before his face connected, and rested his forehead on the cooling stone.

"Why?"

"Sherlock's...gotten into a bit of trouble." Mycroft mumbled, sounding almost embarrassed. Judging by his next sentence, John figured he probably was. "If it were Gregory in that room I'd want you to call me, I'm simply doing the...human...thing." John chuckled darkly at how completely disgusted Mycroft sounded with himself. Then his mind ran through fifteen and a half different situations that could have happened to Sherlock, all of them ending with some sort of mortal wound.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Hypothermia."

"How?"

"He turned the heat off during a snow storm."

"It's _March_!" John said, breaking out of his daze. Without him Sherlock really was going to end up killing himself, accidentally. "Why'd he turn the heat off?"

"Yes, I know it's March. Thank you, doctor." Mycroft bit out coldly, but John sensed the underlying worry. He was Sherlock's older brother after all, he probably blamed himself for everything that happened to his younger sibling. John knew he blamed himself for Harry, and she was older. "And we have no idea, yet, what caused my brilliant younger brother to try and turn himself into an ice block."

"Right, so sending a car?"

"I am sending Bian to bring you to the plane, then the hospital."

"Who the hell is Bian?"

"I believe she called herself Anthea the first time you met." Mycroft said, and John could feel the smirk on the other mans face through the phone. Seconds later a car pulled up, and Antha-or Bian- stepped out elegantly as ever. She was dressed in her to-tight-to-be-considered-appropriate dress suit, and waved a hand at John. Instead of staring at her phone like she usually did, she was actually looking at him, and her unfairly beautiful face was tainted with worry. "See you soon, John."

"Bian today?" John asked as he made his way over to Anthea-Bian, and she nodded solemnly. She'd shown more emotion to him the last time they met also, so he assumed she knew everything that's happened on his little mission so far. Before he could make it to the car the tiny version of Sherlock stopped him, forcing him to look down by waving his thin arms.

"You're a doctor?" Tiny Sherlock asked, his voice still high and childlike. His tone was anything but, he had said the words as a question, but it sounded far more like a statement. When John nodded the boy smiled the perfect 'I'm a genius Holmes' smile and clapped his hands together, looking frightfully like Sherlock. "Thought so. You're also from the army, and you're British. Your Irish accent is very good, though. Your hair is died black,and you don't like it." The boy flew into his deductions like a bat out of hell, and John's face cracked into a smile before he could help it.

"All of that's true, yes, very good." John said, trying his hardest not to sound like a condescending art teacher who was attempting to make you feel better about your clay vessels.

"Of course it is, I figured it all out." The boy attempted to look offended at his brilliance being underestimated, but John recognized the underlying satisfaction at his compliments. It seemed all Holmes had that weakness. "Your here for something important. What? I don't know. She works for the British Government, which means Mycroft. So you work for him? No. No! You're helping him, because you aren't clever enough to work for him, but you are smart enough to assist him in something. Important by the looks of your phone."

"Where are your parents?" John broke in, trying to fight down the happiness in his gut for having some one so much like Sherlock near. The real, true and full sized Sherlock needed him now.

"Don't have any." The boy waved a hand in dismissal, and continued staring at John. "You have to be somewhere right now, you look worried. A friend? No, the look on your face is more...lovey dovey. Wife? No, no ring, no wife. No girlfriend either, you haven't even looked at her twice and she's very pretty. Your blushing now, so you agree but...but your in love! That's who you're worried about!...And in love with a man if the part of your phone call I over heard is correct."

"That's...amazing." John mumbled, looking in unbridled astonishment at the boy. He was Sherlock, a tiny, hyper version of Sherlock. "Who are you?"

"Hamish Holson." The boy said proudly, then his face faltered the tiniest amount. "I used to be anyways..."

"Not a Holmes?"

"No, but they are putting me through my schooling. Mycroft has paid for private tutors for as long as I can remember."

"John.." Bian whispered, and when he looked up he saw the soft, satisfied smile on her face. He'd missed something, he could feel it. "We have to go..." When Hamish's face fell into a disappointed pout she laughed, patting his dusty curls. "He'll be coming back...and I have a feeling you'll be seeing him a lot later on." Her voice held a conspiratorial tone, but John tried to ignore it. He had to get to Sherlock, even if it was only for a second, even if he couldn't tell the genius he was there.

He had to see him, now more then ever.

John tapped incessantly on the leather arm rest of the black car, looking out tinted windows as Bian typed away on her phone. "Almost there, stop that." She commanded, her face still set in that 'I know something you don't' grin she had hours before, when they left Australia. And Hamish.

"How old is he?" John asked suddenly, unable to keep the questions out of his mind. Something about the young boy had pulled at John, and now he was second place for the things that never left John Watson's mind shanty. "Hamish, how old?"

"9 and a half, 10 in September." She replied, and he didn't see, but her smile grew. John also didn't see the text she sent to her boss, and he'd never know about the smile that crossed Mycroft's face when he got it.

_'Meeting with Hamish successful.'_ Is what it said, and that was the only thing that could control the guilt the elder Holmes felt. The only truly good and bright thing that may come out of this entire ridiculous adventure is that he could find Hamish a home. Mycroft will never admit it but he had a soft spot for the look alike of his younger brother, and for the army Doctor. His love, though shown in admittedly odd ways, for his brother was undeniable, and he wanted them all to be happy. The British Government did have a heart, after all.

* * *

Sherlock's fingers ached, like they'd been dipped in a bucket of melting snow. His pinky toe on his left foot wouldn't move, and the atomic bomb of a head ache in his head made him curse this world more then ever before. He'd been injured before, but this felt more like he'd been dropped on his head into a bucket of ice. He attempted to open his eyes, but was attacked by bright lights, and suddenly became aware of the gagging sent of antiseptic. Cracking one eye barely open he tried his best to catalog his surroundings.

_Boring off white walls, dull cream ceiling, horrid bed. Hospital then._ Next Sherlock moved onto himself, flexing each part of his body to deduce his injury. He always forgot, when he ended up here, what it was that got him here. _Fingers all moving, no obvious wounds to torso or legs. Feet still cold, cannot move left pinky toe, or right second and third toes. Head ache, excessive blankets on body, heat elevated in room. Hypothermia! Room empty, television off, high end heart monitor. Mycroft got me here._ Sherlock let out a hefty sigh, only to discover his lungs horribly dry and his lips chapped so bad they bled when he moved them. Blindly he stretched out a shaking hand, pawing at the bedside table for the water glass that usually sat there. After a moment a room temperature plastic cup was pressed to his weak hand and he had to use both hands to hold it over his chest, afraid to drop it over himself. Scooting slowly, and awkwardly without use of his hands, into something akin to a sitting position he sipped slowly at the liquid. It ran down his sandy throat, coating his tongue in blessed water. After a long moment of reveling in the art of water on his dry tonsils, he decided he'd attempt to open his eyes again.

Sherlock was rewarded with an assault to his pupils, then whoever it was that was assigned to babysitting him was kind enough to rush over and turn the room lights off. Now the area was bathed in the dimming light of a March sunset, and that was dim enough for the genius to be able to observe his surroundings. Two chairs sat by the side of his bed, one occupied by Lestrade, the other by an umbrella.

"Making a phone call." Lestrade whispered, catching Sherlock's confused stare at the empty chair. Some childlike part of his brain felt what some would call hurt at the absence of his older brother at the moment he woke up. Curse human emotions, they served no purpose. "Again..." The DI sighed, shaking his head like an old housewife, already tired of arguing over something. Sherlock knew that look, John used to have it whenever Sherlock yelled something like 'Damn those thumbs!' or 'Mrs. Hudson, stop throwing away my scalp samples!' They were looks of fondness, acceptance, and love.

Some part of Sherlock's mind that knew social norms threw up the fact he should be happy for his brother and friend, seeing true love like that should make someone smile. It only made Sherlock ache deep inside his empty, freezing chest. He nearly found happiness in the fact Moriarty had been somewhat wrong.

Not having John didn't burn his heart out, it froze his entire being. It ripped his emotions to shreds, and created ice in every nook and cranny where depression didn't loom. Sherlock did, in fact, find happiness in the fact it'd all be over soon, and he'd be able to end all this ridiculous sentimental pain.

That was certainly one thing, maybe the only thing, he'd never argue with his older brother about: Caring was not an advantage.

"You look like hell on a stick." Lestrade broke into Sherlock's thoughts, trying to bring the detective back to Earth. The man's entire body looked defeated, like he'd finally accepted that he lost, and he could never win again. The far away look in Sherlock's gunmetal grey eyes startled the DI; he looked helpless, hopeless, and like he was about to die.

"Thank you, that's very comforting." Sherlock grumbled, slumping against the pillows and pouting the best he could with his chapped lips. Lestrade laughed half-heartidly, placing two pills on Sherlock's lap.

"For the headache the nurse said you'd be getting, told me to give them to you when you woke up." Greg explained, shrugging one shoulder as he got up to refill the plastic glass. "You've been out for nearly a day now, I didn't think Hypothermia worked that way."

"I'm exceptional in everything I do." Sherlock replied, taking the offered glass and the pills. He tossed the pills onto his tongue and chased them down with a shot of water. "Even falling ill." Lestrade barked a laugh at that, plopping back in the uncomfortable chair, and another one of those cursed sentimental notions rose up in Sherlock's consciousness. "You shouldn't have to stay here, you look rather awful yourself."

"Mhm, well Myc asked me to stay." Lestrade shrugged again, looking like a tired dog as he eyed Sherlock. "And even if he didn't...I would. You might not like it, but I'm your friend and your stuck with me." It was Sherlock's turn to laugh, even if it tore his lips open, because Lestrade was trying. The human part of Sherlock had broken through every barrier he'd put it behind when John fell, and he was seeing everything just a bit differently. This tired man sitting near him was not John, he could never be, but he was a friend. He'd watched Sherlock bow to drugs, watched the genius tear himself apart to serve his master high, and he'd watched Sherlock retch his guts out when he detoxed. He'd thrown drug dealers in prison, risking his entire career to make sure Sherlock could share his genius with this world. Lestrade was one of the few good men Sherlock had ever met, and he certainly didn't deserve all that was given to him.

Sherlock smiled for the DI because he knew he was about to throw another rock in the man's path; give him another reason to curse this world at night. His lips stung and cracked, but he gave a genuine smile to Gregory Lestrade, knowing it may be the last chance he has to do so. Two weeks and he'd be smiling for no one, because the one man he smiled for had left him.

Twenty minutes of idle chit chat partnered with long silences passed before Mycroft finally walked back in. Sherlock noticed immediately the look of self blame his brother wore, layered with a look of what a fool may call hope. But Mycroft Holmes did not hope, and Sherlock was no fool, so he named it smugness and threw it in the cavern dedicated to Mycroft in his mind.

"Feeling better, dear brother?" Mycroft asked, keeping his voice quiet so it wouldn't attack Sherlock's vibrating senses. He looked cold and distant as ever when he sat, one leg over the other and the umbrella balanced on his knee, but Sherlock read between the lines, like the Holmes family always did. Floating near Mycroft's agitated pinky tapping was '_I failed, I should've done better for you.'_ And dancing at the tip of a scuff mark on his shoe, were he drug it across the floor-a nervous habit he couldn't kick- was 'Not again brother, I'll fix it.' Beside the coffee stain on his collar stood, in block lettering, '_I'll protect you, no matter what.'_ And near the twitch of his mouth, under the sleepless bags beneath his eyes flashed, in bright white letters, _'I am sorry. To the moon and back,** I am sorry.** '_

Sherlock saw all of this in seconds, and Mycroft saw Sherlock seeing all of it, and they lock eyes: Cold, pained, dead eyed grey and hard, nearly emotionless blue pinned together with bounds of unfathomable loving hatred. Mycroft was showing more then usual, allowing Sherlock to see the words he couldn't speak, and they both knew it. Only one knew why, though.

"Not in the least." Sherlock grumbled, voice still embarrassingly hoarse. "What was your phone call about?"

"Nothing you'd be remotely interested in." Mycroft said, taking Greg's wrist in his hand so he could see the man's watch. "Gregory needs to go home, he hasn't slept in days. You are nearly asleep where you sit, Sherlock, I think it'd be in your best interest to rest."

"I don't need sleep-"

"Oh shut up and lay down." Mycroft groaned, exasperation clear in his tone. Lestrade smiled at the shift in vocabulary his fiance took when Sherlock got difficult, and stood to do just what the man had said. "There is a car waiting outside."

"Good night." Sherlock flopped backwards onto the bed dramatically, pulling the covers all the way up to his nose. Lestrade and Mycroft moved towards the door, turning back to see disheveled dark curls sticking up comically and bright eyes narrowed in a scathing glare, over the white blanket. Lestrade chuckled, and Mycroft gave an annoying smirk as they left a very peeved Sherlock. Adding to his annoyance was the fact the moment his head hit the pillow he couldn't force his eye lids to remain open, and he was quickly, and reluctantly, following his brothers advice.

* * *

John thought his heart broke when he heard Sherlock scream his name as he plummeted to his 'death'. He thought it broke when he watched the strongest man he knew run out of his funeral, nearly in tears. He even mistook the moment Sherlock said '_It's been an honor, Captain,'_ has the time his heart fell to pieces. No, none of those were the true moment John Watson's heart broke, because now the doctor was discovering true heartbreak wasn't seeing someone in pain and not being able to do something. No, it was seeing someone you loved, someone you'd really jump off a roof for, lying right at your fingertips and being unable to do a damn thing.

Sherlock was curled tightly in a cocoon of blankets, John could only see fluffy curls and closed eyes under all of them. His legs were pulled near his chest, and he was facing the chair John sat in. In a word, the consulting detective was absolutely, illogically, terribly adorable. Tragically beautiful in everything he did, from talking to walking to deducing, John never thought he'd call Sherlock Holmes adorable. The man moved with the elegance of a cat, grace of a dove, and beauty of disproportion and oddity, nothing about that equaled adorable.

But John saw the small pout on the mans sleeping lips as he shifted the blanket off his face as he tossed and turned in the bed and his heart ached to touch him. He wanted to wipe the sadness that seemed carved in Sherlock's face away, and wrap his arms around him. He wanted to kiss that annoyingly cute pout off the mans lip, whether the action be welcome or not, and tell him it would all be normal now. They'd go back to baker street, and continue in their imperfect little life.

Except he couldn't, and they wouldn't, and that _hurt like hell._

The room was drenched in cotton silence, darkness wrapping it's secretive arms around the two men. They were alone now, together again at last. The perfect, improbable, team of doctor and sociopath; of a man renowned for his brain and a man adored for his heart. A panther and a wolf, at odds with each other every moment, but somehow completing each other. Though fate had a sick, psychopathic sense of humor because this perfect team was only a step apart, but kept away with an iron wall of lies.

To Sherlock John was dead, gone forever. To John Sherlock was untouchable, unreachable. Two people who could save each other now, could end a life times worth of suffering with a simple word, a touch, kept from each other by a criminals game. If this were a fairy tail, Sherlock would wake up now, see John sitting there and tackle him to the floor. He'd pin the doctor down and hug him until he couldn't breath, then kiss him until his senses got confused. There would be a wedding and bells and white roses, and golden letters spelling out The End.

Except this isn't a fairy tail, this is a concoction of tragedy and action, love and mystery, lies and Lorazepam. So Sherlock won't tackle John, and wedding bells will not chase out ending credits as a cheesy song plays, they will both continue falling into blackness without each other. Pining and wishing, waiting and hoping, counting and crying until the day Moriarty's cursed web falls to rubble.

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and cupping his chin as he tried to soak in this moment. To memorize every curve and shadow of Sherlock's face, every twist and bend in his curls, every sigh and mumble coming from his lips once again. John had no idea when he'd get to see the man again, and he wasn't going to let this devils gift pass by without something to show for it. Even if that something was an image in his mind, it was all he needed. All he wanted, right then and there.

* * *

Sherlock shifted in his sleep, slowly coming back to the world. It was still dark, but he could see the early morning light beginning to arrive. Slowly he peeled his heavy eye lids open, blinking to make out the figures in the room. One tall and lean, except for the round belly poking from his mid half. The other short and stalk, with well defined muscles and an ugly jumper. _Mycroft and John_ he came up with in his dazed sleep, and a second later his entire body went rigid. Both men went silent, and then there was a crash, but Sherlock couldn't move. The foot falls of someone running echoed in the empty halls, but still Sherlock was frozen.

No, it was **impossible!** John was dead. Dead, gone, passed, never coming back. Sherlock saw him jump from the roof, he saw the blood, he saw his blank glassy eyes. John is dead. It was probably just a doctor or nurse who looked strangely like the fallen army doctor. A lot like him, same hair, same height, same build, with notably more muscles now, but still. It was John.

No, don't be an idiot. It couldn't be John, why would he have stayed gone for so long? No, John was dead, he wouldn't leave Sherlock alone this long by choice. John jumped off hat building! John broke his skull on that pavement! John took his own life July 7th, Sherlock knew it. He knew he saw John lying dead on those cold stones.

Or did he?

Sherlock's breathing was erratic as the world spun around him, distantly he registered his brothers voice and frantic nurses. He couldn't more or reply, just shake and wheeze as the horrible memory pulled his broken mind into it's embrace.

_He stood in the center of a frozen street, watching himself talk on the phone. Suddenly he saw the other him stop, and look to the skyline. Blue eyes halted on one roof in particular, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to turn and verify what he already knew. Everything was deathly silent, but he knew exactly the words being said. He watched his face go from surprise to denial, then desperation. 'No, no John. Shut up! You're being an idiot again.' That's what he was saying now, and he watched as the tears cracked in his eyes, falling over his cheeks. He watched himself hold a shaking hand into the air, and he knew John was doing the same behind him. Some eerie part of Sherlock's mind supplied john's voice, traced through the street like wind._

_'Hole me one last time.' It said and suddenly Sherlock realized that's what they'd been doing. From so far away they were reaching for one another, holding each other one last time, knowing they were about to loose their love...No, their soul mate. Sherlock watched himself drop the phone, and he watched his entire face transform into a shell shocked mask as his lips formed the last shout John ever heard._

_'John!' He watched himself run across the street, and get hit by the biker, and now he began backing away. He couldn't watch this, not the moment he found John. He couldn't relive that, no. Not again, never again!_

"Not again!" He whispered to himself, rocketing from the images hiding his mind. Nurses were trying to hold down his thrashing limbs, and his breath was still to quick for comfort. His chest burst with fire as it heaved in each short breath, shaking him to the core. Now he stared at the ceiling, every part of his body shaking violently as nurses and doctors kept shouting. Asking what happened, if he was known to have panic attacks, and to keep him under watch. Mycroft answered all of these, and the minutes passed by as Sherlock kept an unwavering gaze on the ceiling tiles.

Sherlock didn't see John, he couldn't have. It was impossible, and he couldn't believe in miracles anymore. His miracle had fallen off a roof.


End file.
